The Ringmaster
by Doctor Harley Quinn
Summary: Harley wants the Joker. The Joker wants Batman. Batman's busy trying to corral Gotham's newest crime lord, Oswald Cobblepot… and Cobblepot seems strangely invested in Harley. It's a circus out there in Gotham's underworld, but fortunately for Harley Quinn, she's got the best guide a girl could ask for—even if he DOES seem to be trying to kill her half the time. Sequel to Bad Jokes.
1. prologue

**The Ringmaster**

**© 2014 Sara Parker**

**I do not and never will own Batman, the Joker, Harley Quinn, and all of the wonderful inventions that Bob Kane and others have come up with over the years. I'm just borrowing them to play with.**

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**Summary**:_ Harley wants the Joker. The Joker wants Batman. Batman's busy trying to corral Gotham's newest crime lord, Oswald Cobblepot… and Cobblepot seems strangely invested in Harley. It's a circus out there in Gotham's underworld, but fortunately for Harley Quinn, she's got the best guide a girl could ask for—even if he DOES seem to be trying to get her killed half the time. Sequel to Bad Jokes._

**Author's Note**: Wow. Um. I kind of don't know what to say, though I _know _there are things I need to talk about leading into this. It's been five years and a day since the completion of Bad Jokes, three years since Malady, and I've been promising a follow-up—basically, I've been taking my sweet time (which is a casual way of saying that it can be hard to keep promises in a timely fashion when one is busy writing an original novel, getting a degree, finding a career, and adding sisters-in-law to the family every year/trying to find time to visit said family). It's been a busy few years, and very fruitful ones, but I've keenly felt my neglect of this arena and all of you. When I said I was going to write a full-length follow-up, I always meant it, and so finally, I'm here to make good. All there is left to say is that I thoroughly hope it'll prove worth the wait (I have my doubts, which I'm trying to squash) and give you some…

**Housekeeping Notes: **Obviously, for those of you who haven't read Bad Jokes (and to a lesser extent, its partner piece, Malady), let me redirect you to my profile, since this story won't make much sense without having first gone through those. Now,someday I'll draw a timeline of approximate events starting with the Joker's first appearance in the Dark Knight and going on through all the Bad Jokesverse stories, but for now: this story takes place about six-seven months after Malady. Harley has known the Joker for about a year now. This 'verse is skewed slightly in that it splits somewhat from Nolan's canon post Dark Knight—as of right now, these stories are incompatible with the events of The Dark Knight Rises and Batman is not retired (which makes his life very difficult given that people are firing at him from both sides).

Given that the events of this story are related from Harley's first person perspective with occasional third person sections told from the Joker's point of view, I encourage everyone to bear in mind that neither Harley Quinn nor the Joker are reliable narrators and that it's a given that they'll twist the truth to serve their purposes. In that light, this fic is rated mature for, among other things, graphic depictions of violence, casualization of violence (given our narrators' perspective), unrestrained language, psychological manipulation, and sensuality. If any of these things trigger you or simply aren't up your alley, you may want to seek fic elsewhere.

I'm breaking my usual rule in that I'm beginning to give chapters their final edit and post them before I have a complete rough draft, so that might result in some slight continuity errors that I'll beg your pardon for. This fic will be cross-posted to AO3, so if any of you out there are more comfortable with that format, my profile there is hahaharley.

Aaand… I think that's it. There will be less significant notes, pictures, soundtrack, and more at the Bad Jokes blog linked in my profile that should fill in any holes I've left. Go forth and (I hope) enjoy!

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**Prologue**

He opened his eyes.

His mouth tasted like metal. The room was pitch black, but the air around him felt familiar, and he lay on a mattress that smelled like him—he knew he must be securely at headquarters. He didn't know how long he'd been out, and lazily, his hand drifted up to touch his throbbing bicep, wounded from a close graze with a copper's bullet.

The touch stung, but he could tell from the tacky and clotted feel of the blood on his fingertips combined with the raw, almost concave ache of his empty stomach that he had been out for at least a few hours. Exactly how long he'd been asleep was not important.

He'd been having a dream. Normally, his dreams melted away like cobwebs upon waking, as elusive as the details of his entirely irrelevant past, but for whatever reason, this one stuck around. _She _had wanted to go shopping ("to pick out some curtains for the new hideout, silly") and he'd joined her on a whim, always willing to start the day with a good evisceration. The whole thing had culminated in her holding out two swatches (he wondered vaguely where he'd picked up that term but didn't care enough to trace its roots in his brain) for his perusal, chirping "Eggshell or ivory, Mr. J?" and him trying to make her understand that he didn't give a _dead rat's ass, _to just _choose _already so he could use the one she _didn't _want to wipe the sales clerk's blood and flecks of guts off of his shoes, good footwear wasn't cheap, didn't she _know _that?

As the memory of the dream faded, he stretched out, feeling a languid satisfaction in the ache of under-rested muscles and the sting of half-healed wounds, and then reached out absently to the space beside him. He frowned when his fingertips met nothing but cool sheets, and he felt around for a second before realizing that his quiet, erratic breathing was the only sound in the room. That… made no sense. She needed _so much _sleep; she was always there when he fell asleep and always there when he woke up, having given up on trying to match him in the first couple of weeks.

He felt vaguely betrayed by the emptiness of the bed—not because he needed or necessarily even _wanted_ her there, but because he didn't recall having given her permission to change her routine. Since he didn't immediately have anything better to do, he rolled out of bed and went hunting for her. Or some food. Whichever he found first. (He kind of hoped it would be food.)

He exited the black room, went downstairs, and squinted at the fluorescent glare lighting the main room of the new hideout. Taking as little notice of the assembled henchmen as he would a dead body in the room (that is to say, none at all) he went straight to the connected kitchen, searching through the cabinets until he stumbled upon a huge bag of what looked like beef jerky. He pulled it open and tossed a piece into his mouth, testing, then nodded when he had confirmed to his satisfaction that it _was _jerky and took a handful, gnawing noisily on it as he turned and leaned back against the wall to look through the room for her. He checked the corners and the shadows, checked to make sure she wasn't hiding behind anybody, and when he still failed to locate her, he looked at the nearest henchman.

The guy felt eyes on him and nervously looked up, swallowing. "What's up, boss?"

The Joker licked his lips, getting a vague, familiar feeling that his voice may have rotted away as he slept, but no—it came out just fine, if high and creaky as usual, when he asked, "Where is she?"

"Where's _who, _boss?"

The Joker squinted sharply and shook his head from side to side a little, _can you believe this guy? _As if there was ever more than one woman allowed in the hideout. Well, okay, hostages sometimes, but they weren't really _people, _so they didn't count. Women _complicated_ things, women got _squeamish_ and _screamy_ and _cried_ when they got hit. In fact, during those first couple of weeks with her, he'd thought every day about cutting her throat and dumping her on Arkham's doorstep, at least until she'd proven that she wouldn't cause ripples with the boys and that she would only cry on _special_ occasions. These days, he only thought about killing her once a week. Usually. He didn't think he needed to voice this thought.

Instead, he said, "Uhhh… how many _she_s do you usually see around here? Where's _Harley_?"

Understanding dawned, followed quickly by confusion. The guy spoke in a very careful tone that the Joker immediately loathed. It was the way _normal _people talked to crazy people, and not only was he _not _crazy, but he _hated _"normal." However, what the henchman had to say momentarily stemmed the Joker's annoyance. "She… she's at Arkham, boss. Don't you remember?"

The Joker blinked. No, he did not remember. _When did that happen? _he thought, vaguely irritated by her lack of consideration. He should leave her in there until she found a way out, just to teach her a lesson about being careless enough to get caught. That's how _he'd _always had to learn.

The guy looked vaguely encouraged by the fact that this news didn't result in a knife in his guts, so he kept going: "She's been there since the beginning of summer, a couple'a months ago, remember? You made the call to leave her for the cops."

The Joker blinked again. This was news to him. In fact, he could have sworn he remembered seeing her flitting around the new hideout, which they'd just moved into last week, a vague red outline always humming away in the corner of his eye—but those memories could just as well have been his idle brain inventing entertainment. He'd always had an… _overactive_ imagination, and he was accepting of it so long as it didn't distract him from anything really _important_.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he remembered bending down over a wounded little blonde thing lying curled and bleeding on the pavement, pinching her cheek as the sirens drew closer and then climbing into the car and leaving her to the GPD's tender lovin' care. He didn't remember _why_ anymore—details like that were unimportant in the face of the grand scheme—but he was _sure_ he'd had a good reason.

That was then, though, and he frowned thoughtfully as he realized that he didn't _want _her in Arkham right now. Like it or not, Harley had survived in proximity to him long enough at this point to both understand and see the wisdom in playing by his rules, which made her an asset. Things were shifting fast, and he could use a decent face card in his hand. She could go back to the padded cells and ineffective antipsychotic meds _later_ if she wanted to, no skin off his nose, but right now, he wanted her _here. _

He turned to look for some coffee. He had a breakout to organize.

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**A/N** - Aaaand we're off. Rest assured, chapters get steadily longer from this point onward. I've got some reworking of the next chapter that I need to do, as well as scrambling to finish the rough draft so I can fix up all the little missing details before you get to them, but I'll try to have the next installment for you within a week. In the meantime: what do you think? Did you suspect we'd return this way? As always, feedback and commentary is the food of fic writers, so I'd love to hear from all of you, returning readers who've been waiting patiently (God bless all of you, particularly those of you who have fed me with questions and encouragement sent through the blog) and newcomers alike!


	2. swear to keep your mouth shut

**Chapter One  
swear to keep your mouth shut**

_Bite your tongue, swear to keep  
Keep your mouth shut  
Make up something  
Make up something good…_

**-Queens of the Stone Age, **_**Burn the Witch**_

I sat with my forehead pressed against the window and looked out at the rain.

Arkham didn't have a lot of bright spots, but the window seats in the common room weren't so bad. On evenings when I had been "behaving," I was allowed to come out and "socialize" with the other inmates. I had no interest in most of my fellow prisoners, given the fact that half of them were only considered docile because they were constantly drugged (which resulted in an unseemly amount of drool and vastly dull conversational skills) and the other half were crass, lewd, unintelligent letches, criminals of the clumsiest and most unsophisticated breed.

I made a habit, therefore, of retiring to the furthest window seat from the circle of chairs and couches in the center of the room and sitting there looking out over the city for as long as they'd let me. The windows were barred, of course, but if I put my face close enough to them, it was as if the bars weren't there, and because Arkham Asylum was located in the Narrows, there was no shortage of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks howling past with sirens blaring and lights flashing. I took comfort in the sight and sound of emergency vehicles these days. On the outside, they were an alarm, harbingers of trouble. Inside, they just reminded me of him.

"Brooding again?"

Ah, yes, I had no interest in _most _of my fellow prisoners—that left me a little loophole, in which I placed Jonathan Crane, former teacher and current best frenemy (though he always gave me a particularly judgmental look whenever I used that term in reference to him—"Harley, I am thirty-three years old, and _you_, I might point out, are twenty-seven. I think we're above such kitschy slang, don't you?"). While he had a bigger-than-average attitude problem and was prone to sudden psychotic breaks that typically left _someone _with a painfully bruised neck, he was also the closest thing to a kindred soul I had in this hellhole.

He joined me on the window seat without being asked, and I pulled my feet up to make room for him, hugging my knees to my chest and shooting him a particularly unpleasant look. "I am not brooding."

"Oh, you're _always _brooding." He didn't have his glasses on today. Sometimes he left them off—I imagine it was because his vision wasn't terrible up close and because he didn't really _need _to see Ostrich Taylor blowing his usual series of massive spit bubbles in the far corner.

For all that Jonathan projected a sense of cold dignity, at least on his good days, he had proven himself capable of relentlessly sticking to "are not," "are too" arguments, all the while managing to _maintain_ that illusion of dignity, so I didn't bother contradicting him again. I just rested my head against the cool bars again and looked out at the sodden gray city, _his _city, and felt the familiar itch of agitation in response to its simultaneous nearness and unavailability.

"Rumor has it your therapy's not going well."

I rolled my eyes around and gave him a look_. Come on. _He showed me his palms and shrugged. "I didn't say I _expected _it to. I was just making a note."

"You keeping _notes _on me?"

"Well, I have to occupy my time somehow, and your case is much more interesting than… art therapy."

"Is it."

"Well, it's amusing to see how thoroughly you frustrate the staff doctors." I didn't respond, still looking out the window, but he must have seen the trace of a smile at my lips, because he elaborated without being asked: "You have enough of an understanding of the field to comprehend that many of them are primarily eager to use you as a tool to get inside of the mind of that partner of yours, so you circumvent their intentions by simply refusing to talk about him. Unfortunately for your treatment, your madness is tied singularly to the man in question, the one subject you refuse to touch. There's no starting that path to recovery if you aren't willing to discuss _him, _and so you've got them in quite the bind regarding your particular case."

I nodded, vaguely gratified by his appreciation, but the smile disappeared at the mention of "that partner of mine." Jonathan noticed. I could feel him watching me, studying me like everyone did, but since he was a sort-of friend I didn't follow the increasingly common violent impulse that advised me to lash out and catch him under the chin with my foot. After a second, he asked abruptly, "Do you really think he's coming for you?"

I glanced sharply at him and nearly laughed despite myself. Even without the glasses, even dressed in an orange Arkham jumpsuit and with his hair rumpled in a way that made him look rather like a little boy, everything else about him—from his tone to his posture to the intensity in his eyes—radiated "headshrink." I shrugged delicately and looked back to the window. Jonathan and I might be on good terms, but the single rule that governed all of my Arkham interactions—_don't ever speak the truth about the Joker_—had kept me focused and safe from their prying so far, and I hardly intended to suspend it now just because I was partial to him.

He went on. "Don't bother; I know you won't answer. I also know that you believe wholeheartedly that he will. Or do you sit at that window every day because you're watching for the Goodyear blimp?"

"That's funny. You're funny."

"How's the wrist?" he asked, wisely (for once) picking up on my warning tone and changing the subject.

Instinctively, I flexed the fingers of my right hand. "It's fine. Aches every now and again, but that's normal enough—that'll go away in a month or two."

"Broken many wrists before?" he questioned, too innocently.

I shot him a look. "I'm a gymnast. What do _you _think?"

"My, but we're in a mood today."

"You're _baiting _me, Jonathan."

"I seem to remember you being in a mood yesterday as well."

"Yeah, you were baiting me _then, _too."

"As far as I've been able to tell, it's the best way to pull you outside of yourself. If you spend all your time brooding and refusing to speak to anyone, they'll declare you catatonic, and as a psychiatrist, let me tell you, you will _not _like the measures they'll take in an effort to _cure _you should that happen."

"_Former_ psychiatrist," I snarked. He gave me a decidedly unpleasant look, and I privately thought that that was rich of him, teasing me nonstop and then acting all wounded when I said _one _little thing that displeased him. I changed subjects. "So you're saying you're just nagging at me to _help _me? Your motives are altruistic, is that it?"

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions. I simply find it beneficial to keep you nearby," he said lazily as his gaze drifted over the gathering of inmates. "Without you to talk to, I'd have to listen to Scott repeat that exhaustive list of his underage victims—it's alphabetized now, by the way. That or watch Peterson piss himself. If they would let me just stay in my cell during _social hour, _I'd feel no need to keep you out of trouble, but _no._"

"You really know how to flatter a girl," I said wryly. "You know, you could always just attack a nurse. I'm sure that would help you 'lose your social privileges.'"

"Thank you, no," he said arrogantly. "You might not mind being manhandled by big, sweaty men, but it's not to _my _liking."

I couldn't keep from letting loose an ugly snort at that. "Sounds like denial to me," I snarked as soon as I managed to recover from the undignified lapse.

He gave me a disapproving look and stood up. "I should move on. Nurse Collins is starting to look worried. She thinks I'm a bad influence on you—haven't _you _got them fooled."

"Where's the common sense in this place?" I complained, ignoring the dig, which was true enough. "They encourage us to 'socialize,' but when we start making friends, they worry that we're bad for each other. Would it kill them to make up their minds?"

"Don't you wish we could find out," he murmured absently, and drifted away without a goodbye, leaving me to the rain and the sound of sirens.

* * *

I did not understand quite how much of a shithole Arkham was until I was interred there. Even working there, going there every day—I'd been insulated from the worst, could shake off the white walls and green linoleum and sickly fluorescent lighting whenever I went home for the night. That changed when the choice to come and go as I pleased was taken from me. The asylum's halls carried a sickness that seemed to cling to me, and without time away to scour the contamination from my skin, I feared the long-term effect the place might have on me.

I don't think anyone really questioned my incarceration at the madhouse. There was some threatening throwing around of the term "women's correctional facility" by police visiting me in my securely-guarded hospital room when I was first arrested, but they cut that out as soon as it became evident that I didn't give a shit. I think even the _prosecutor_ at my hearing wasn't convinced that any woman who would willingly live and work with the Joker could possibly be in her right mind.

(I may have influenced the decision inadvertently when my scumbag public defender got a little too fresh and touched the inside of my thigh under the table. I reached up with my cuffed hands, grabbed the back of his head, and slammed his face down on the table with all of my might, breaking his nose in front of God and the judge and everybody. I knew it was inadvisable even at the time, but what was I supposed to do, sit there and smile and pretend like my lawyer _wasn't _a huge creep?)

Long story short, it surprised no one when they decided I belonged at Arkham under the tender loving care of my former-colleague-now-asylum-director, David Wilson. I couldn't help but smile when they passed the ruling—I couldn't help it, the irony was _funny_—and I could immediately taste the fear in the room. From judge to prosecutor to spectator, they all had a fleeting second of apprehension—_was this the right move?_ They weren't afraid of me—oh no—but the company I kept was a bit more terrifying. Not that I had any assurance that he planned to punish them for daring to touch his things (I rather doubted it; he had other things on his plate) but everyone knew whose side I was on. Their fear made me feel better.

Once I was confined to Arkham, things settled rapidly into a routine. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, meds with all three. Daily showers with the small handful of other female inmates, none of whom were big or mean enough to pose a threat to me. Art therapy, visits to the common room, two hours of exercise weekly. Lights out at nine. And, most tedious of all, hour-long "therapy" sessions four days a week. It was stable, it was scheduled, I had structure, and I was so bored I wanted to claw my own eyes out—or better yet, an orderly's eyes. That oughta break up the monotony.

My only solace was in knowing that the Joker had never been subjected to the indignity that was "social hour." He'd been a very high-security patient, and as such, had been limited essentially to his cell, the showers, and his therapy sessions. Me, I wasn't so lucky—they'd never proved that I'd killed anyone (and I wasn't about to go confessing), and it was pretty obvious that I wasn't the one with the master plan, so I was shit out of luck as far as getting them to keep me isolated "as a safety measure."

That wasn't to say I didn't get into my share of trouble. Indeed, I started my stint at Arkham with a considerable bang.

Typically, when a patient is first admitted to Arkham, their arrival effects a sort of therapist shuffle, wherein the powers that be attempt to choose the best doctor for the newcomer. They start with whoever's readily available, and often, this works—most patients are willing to cooperate, because they know when they're pronounced "cured," they'll be released. They can't be cured if they don't work with a doctor, and often, one is as good as the other to them.

However, things don't always work out that way. For a patient's therapy to progress, there needs to be a certain level of comfort and confidence from patient to doctor, if not outright trust, and that doesn't always happen with the first doctor to come along. In extreme cases like the Joker's a patient can go through a dozen therapists before finding someone they're willing to accept.

I had no interest in being _cured_. The simplest way to shut down their game was to refuse to play it, and so with my first two doctors, I sat silent and unresponsive. I wasn't rude, I wasn't violent—I just wasn't interested, and I sat there dead-eyed, totally ignoring their vague implications that I would never get out of there if this was the way I chose to play it.

When the first two doctors failed to get through to me_, _Arkham apparently decided that a more proactive approach was needed. They sent in Dr. Matthew Porter.

I was sitting there, just minding my own business, prepared to sit silently through another session, when he blew in. He had none of that slow steadiness common to doctors accustomed to dealing with volatile patients; his movements were erratic and his voice was loud as he pulled out the chair opposite me and said, "Harleen, I'm Dr. Porter and I'll be working with you from now on."

Slowly, I raised an eyebrow. Bluster, confidence, assumed familiarity… I could tell already that my typical approach of _sit-there-like-a-dead-thing_ probably wouldn't work so well in this case. This guy was out to get under my skin.

Well, fine, but I wasn't going to shoulder the blame if he got trapped there.

I watched him in silence as he made a show of flipping impatiently through my file. I judged him to be around my age, with dark hair combed back away from his face, lashless blue eyes I thought were a bit amphibian, and thin lips that struck me as being unnaturally red. I took an instant dislike to his face, and flexed the fingers of my right arm, which was at the time in a cast from the incident that landed me in the asylum in the first place. Because of the cast and because I hadn't shown any aggression since that day in court, I was unrestrained, an oversight I thought might come in handy.

"No, no, no," he mumbled as he flipped through the file, finally just shutting it and dropping it on the table, focusing his attention on me. "This won't do at all, Harleen. Consistently antisocial behavior? Unresponsive in therapy? It's as if you _want _to be here."

He looked like he was planning to go on, but I looked him in the eye and, for the first time while a therapy session was in progress, I spoke: "I don't think it's fair that you get to know _my _first name when I don't know yours. Makes the forced familiarity seem a little one-sided, you know? And I prefer Harley. You know. Just FYI."

I saw a half-surprised, half-triumphant gleam in his eyes for a split second before he shut it down. He was very good at regulating his expression, very quick, very pro, but at the time of my incarceration, I had been living in close quarters to the Joker for the better part of a year. Identifying microexpressions that lasted no longer than a quarter-second could mean the difference between getting out of the way quickly enough to avoid being stuck with a short-bladed knife and bleeding for the next hour, so I'd become rather adept at reading faces, and the average person had nothing on the Joker. Dr. Porter was easy.

"Well," he said generously, "since you're being so kind as to _respond _for once, my name is Matthew. I think I'll stick with Harleen for you, though."

"Let me guess—_Harley _isn't healthy."

"It's the moniker the Joker gave you when he manipulated you into performing criminal acts."

"Actually, it's been my nickname ever since I was a kid, but since I figure you're a lot less interested in talking about _that _than about the _Joker, _why not? What do you want to know?"

He blinked. I'd thrown him off-guard. "What do I—?"

"What do you want to know about him?" I asked patiently, lacing my fingers together on the tabletop, biding my time. "Everyone knows _I'm _not the interesting one. _He's _the one you're really after, am I right? Examining me is the closest you'll get to examining him; why else would you be here wasting your time?"

He cleared his throat. I imagine he'd expected defensiveness instead of offensive tactics, and I watched him with the barest little smile as he said, "Harleen, I'm here to do what I can to help you. I'm here because I have a genuine interest in assisting you as you work through whatever problems you have and earn your freedom."

I waited.

"However—" _bingo_—"the best way to _do_ that is to discuss the catalyst of your initial trauma. In this case, you're right—it's undeniably the Joker."

"Mmhmm," I said knowingly. "Dress it up if you like; it boils down to the same thing. So again—what would you like to know?"

I could see the struggle playing out on his face as clear as the harsh light of day. The doctor in him said _no, patience, if you confirm her suspicions you won't have her trust and that could hurt you in the long run, _while the opportunist in him said urgently _no, she's offering, and this is your chance to get some insight into the Joker's mind, possibly your _**_only_**_ chance._

The opportunist won in a matter of seconds, and with his decision to pursue that line of questioning, his professionalism crumbled slightly. He moved his chair forward slightly, placed his palms flat on the table, and, unable to fully conceal his curiosity, he asked, "How would you describe your relationship with the Joker?"

I pulled a thoughtful face. One of the _other _benefits of living with Joker was that he read faces like no one I'd ever known—it was one of the tactics that had contributed to his reputation of being inhuman, a mind-reader—and though I rarely (if ever) managed to _really _fool him, I was always working on it, on blanking my face or faking emotion. Regular people were _much _easier. "That's a pretty big question. You mean domestically? How do we decide whose turn it is to cook, who does the laundry, that sort of stuff? Socially? Whether we flip a coin to decide whether to invite the neighbors to dinner or just save ourselves the hassle and kill them?"

"I—"

"No, you're right, that's more Two-Face's bag." I saw the flash of confusion crossing his face and belatedly recalled that not everyone was privy to the Joker's mutterings. I moved on before he could recover enough to ask questions. "Nah, though. That stuff is boring. I bet I know what you _really _want. For all that Freud's been virtually discredited, people _do _tend to fixate on sex, don't they?"

"Harleen," he said firmly, finally recovering and asserting his authority like a good little shrink, "that's enough."

"Oh, come on," I countered. "You _have _to be curious about the details. Maybe you even want pointers. He must be pretty good for me to stay, isn't that right? You're telling me you haven't wondered whether I'm crazy enough to let him tie me up?"

"Harleen, I'm going to have to terminate this session if you don't regain control of yourself."

"Oh, _shove your control up your ass_," I spat, dropping all of the false geniality and letting him see the pure, furious contempt I was feeling."Let me tell you something, _Matthew_—it doesn't matter if we're talking about sex, doesn't matter if we're talking about the day-to-day. Topic is irrelevant. You're trying to pry into our relationship like a rotten little _voyeur_. You want to talk about me, fine_, _we'll focus on me—but if you go on like this, trying to get to _him _through me, then I swear, I'll arrange a _personal _meeting so you can satisfy your curiosity."

He seemed uncertain as to how to handle this virulent little outburst, and for the first time I saw a flicker of apprehension in those eyes as he realized what, exactly, I was threatening. Regardless of whether either of us thought I actually had the power to follow through, the idea was enough to repulse him into silence, and I stared unblinking at him for a second before adding, "And since we're getting along _so_ well, you should know that while _he's_ the one everyone's scared of, he's taught me a trick or two as well. Maybe you'll remember that after today."

One second I was sitting motionless in the chair across the table from him. The next, I was headed over the table towards him, and as he made an abortive attempt to stand, instinctively lifting his hands to protect his face, I drilled a quick shot to his solar plexus. When he doubled over and dropped his hands to his torso, I aimed a shot at his throat.

Porter was lucky. Because I was crouched on the table and half of my attention was going towards keeping my balance, the blow was a glancing one—if it had been full-force and on target, it could have crushed his trachea. As it was, he just made a horrible gagging sound, and that was when the orderlies finally got inside of the room and intervened, wrestling me off of him and forcing me facedown on a table. Seconds later, I felt a sting at the inside of my elbow and then…

Well, if you've never floated on a sea of Thorazine, I'll just say it's not _unpleasant_—unless, of course, you're in a mental asylum where you don't trust anyone and where you have no reassurance that they won't just keep you doped up all the time and you need to be conscious and aware and ready in case your boyfriend chooses _that _week to bust you out. Then it's hell, because despite the fact that it's meant to just level you out emotionally (i.e. turn you into a zombie), there are some things it just can't touch, and instinct is one of those things. At the time, my instinct told me that I needed to stay alert. On Thorazine, I couldn't do that, and vaguely, I knew it. It didn't exactly make for a great trip.

When the sedatives wore off, I was lectured gently but firmly by a nurse, told that I'd lost my social privileges for at least a week, and that until I proved myself capable of "acting like a lady," I'd be restrained during therapy sessions. I made some faces at her when her back was turned, but otherwise gave no indication of my inner belligerence, because I did _not _want to risk being doped up again.

I _did _ask, innocently, about Dr. Porter and was told that he took an extended weekend. I was more than a little gratified by this.

After that encounter, the rules changed a little bit. Even though I was restrained, therapists were a lot more cautious with me, and in turn, I was never overly aggressive with them. They were forever trying to find ways to get me to talk about the Joker without actually seeming like they were trying to get me to talk about the Joker, and I simply stuck to my guns—I would not talk about him, not truthfully, anyway, while I was within the Asylum's walls.

But I couldn't go attacking every doctor who pried anymore, either. After all, I had a job to do. I had to stay away from the sedatives, had to keep my ear to the ground and wait for him to make a move. I believed wholeheartedly that he would not leave me here forever. At some point, he would come crashing in to bust me out, and it was my duty to be ready for him when he did. I owed him that much.

Until then, all I could do was keep my nose clean and wait.

* * *

**A/N** - In the words of M. Gustave from _The Grand Budapest Hotel_, "If there's one thing we've learned from penny dreadfuls, it's that when you find yourself in a place like this, you must never be a candy ass; you've got to prove yourself from day one." With that in mind I encourage y'all to remember that ArkhamHarley consists of her most self-protective, resentful, feral characteristics and that you'll be seeing much more of the sociable, cheerful, loving young lady you're perhaps more accustomed to once she feels a bit... safer. In the meantime, enjoy those rough edges!

Dr. Porter was written while August Diehl's face floated in my mind (especially the look he was rocking during Inglourious Basterds). There are approximately two (maybe three?) references to the film _Bronson_ (particularly Charlie's stint in the mental asylum) peppered throughout this chapter; God bless you if you can find them. Aaand I'll be posting the chapter's song on the blog shortly for those of you who haven't heard it and are curious. Also, I hope you enjoyed the return of our favorite snarky frenemy, Jonny Crane, because_ I_ did.

To the anonymous reviewer who was interested in knowing if I'd ever write a Bruce OC: I'm still playing around with the idea of writing Haven, and that whole everything would be much darker than the original, but it's a ways off. Still, never say never!

Next up: more Arkham and you learn part of how Harley got there to begin with. Don't worry, we won't be stuck in the asylum forever, but there are a couple of things to look at before she gets tossed right back in the game. Until then, here's hoping you enjoyed Harley's return! Many thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter and I hope to hear from you again.


	3. poke them in their prying eyes

**Chapter Two**

**I'd like to poke them in their prying eyes**

_I'd like to poke them in their prying eyes  
with things they never see  
if it smacked them in their temples_

**-Arctic Monkeys, **_**The Fire and the Thud**_

Shortly after Crane left me there at the window, my peace was disturbed once again. An orderly approached me, and I glanced from the window to his face for just long enough to see that he looked vaguely familiar.

"Come on, Miss Quinzel," he said, affable but firm. "It's Friday. You know what that means."

I remembered then that I liked him. Most of the orderlies were forceful, superior—this one was always polite, good with a needle but not too hasty, but I didn't know his name. I made a point not to learn any of their names. You never knew who might be sacrificed as collateral damage in the event of a breakout; it would be foolish to get attached, like making pets of chickens on a poultry farm. I'd learned this lesson the hard way with the henchmen. Still, I found myself idly hoping that this one would be away from the asylum when the trouble inevitably began.

I didn't like Friday's sessions, but I didn't make a fuss, instead giving him a hard little smile as I slipped off of the window sill. Spitting and cussing was the quickest way towards crippling sedation; I might as well submit with good grace.

Once we reached the examination room, he motioned for me to put my hands together. I was still working off the Porter incident; they no longer shackled my feet but I still had to wear the cuffs. As he cinched them—gently, I noticed—I watched him and said, "You're a big fella."

"So I hear."

"You're not looking for a job, are you? You know, we're always hiring."

He finished with the cuffs and met my eyes, and I read wry amusement and a little bit of apprehension in his. "Thank you, ma'am, but I think I'm fine right here."

"Well, think about it. I like you."

He pointed at the chair. I grinned cheekily at him, spun around, and plunked down as he left the room.

The silence settled over my shoulders, and I was comforted by it. The asylum wasn't much for quiet—even at night in the cells, the air was punctuated by the sounds of other prisoners, crying, moving, talking to themselves, working through night terrors… it made it difficult to imagine oneself away. Here, this quiet calm before sessions, was the best part about Arkham. Here, I could close my eyes and imagine myself back home with him.

The peace, as always, was shattered abruptly by the opening door, and I took a deep breath through my nose before opening my eyes. By then, Dr. David Wilson had taken his seat opposite me.

I made no secret of the fact that I hated these sessions more than most, but he insisted. I thought it was a severe conflict of interest; he thought it could only be good for me to have accountability to someone from my "former life." I'd reminded him of the history behind the asylum, of the way our illustrious founder had "counseled" the man who'd murdered his wife and daughter right into the electric chair, and Wilson had just looked incredibly wounded.

That was the worst part, really—looking up to see that wounded look in his eyes, like a dog that had been kicked. Maybe once upon a time, that look would have inspired pity in me, but now, it just infuriated me beyond measure.

I had once quite liked Wilson. That was before he'd come around poking and prodding and shoving his nose into my business. (It was also before I'd put a knife in him, but that was mostly irrelevant.)

"How are you, Harley?" he asked quietly, making the first move, as always.

I wasn't interested in playing ball. Instead of responding directly to his question, I just stared at him and asked levelly, "Why do we keep doing this, David?"

He didn't seem put off by the question. Regarding me with dead-eyed calm, he quietly replied, "We're doing it for your sake. We're doing it because you're unwell, and because I hope that eventually, you'll see that. After all—"

"Recognizing that you have a problem is the first step to recovery," I said, baring my teeth in a not-quite smile. He sat quietly, wisely sensing my irritability and refraining from provoking it further, and I let the quasi-smile drop, leaving my face bare and dead. Quietly, I said, "I don't _have _a problem, David."

Staring back at me, equally deathly calm, Wilson said, "You put a _knife _in my arm, Harley."

"You were in my way."

"That doesn't sound like a highly illogical reason to _stab someone_ to you?"

"Not if you know what's important to you," I snapped.

"Well, what _is _important to you, then?" he challenged.

"That night? It was getting through that door you were blocking."

He stared at me for a couple of seconds, long enough for me to notice a look in his eyes that I'd never seen before—not frustration. Not quite. It was something a little more unnerving, but before I could place it, he glanced down to scribble something on his clipboard. By the time he looked up again, it was tucked neatly away.

"Off to a rough start today," he commented lightly.

"Nothing unusual about that," I sighed, folding my arms over my middle and slouching just about as far down in my chair as I could without falling off.

"Tell me something, Harley. Don't you want to get out of here?"

I took a slow breath before glancing deliberately up into his eyes, not blinking. "Not if it means cutting myself open and forking my guts over for you bloodsuckers to sift through."

"As I recall, you used to be one of those _bloodsuckers,_" he pointed out dryly.

"_Used to be_," I said pointedly.

"Which is one of the factors that makes your situation so… odd." He paused, folding his hands together on the desk. "As a trained psychologist, one would think you'd have recognized the warning signs. Even now, it seems strange that you don't see the problem."

"Well, it's a matter of perspective," I said easily, shrugging. "From a psychologist's perspective, sure. I see problems. I see plenty of them. I can also see how to fix them."

"By _talking_ about him," Wilson interjected.

"_However_," I said pointedly, ignoring him, "having spent some time _outside _of the office, it's become quite clear to me that a psychologist's perspective is cripplingly narrow. _Everything _has to be dissected, labels neatly attached- you know, for a field meant to detect and tend to abnormalities, there's surprisingly little allowance for the existence of the _other_."

"The other," Wilson repeated, watching me patiently. "What exactly do you mean, _other_?"

He was considerably more experienced than Dr. Porter, and so if he hoped he had finally found the way in, he didn't show it. Still, I was on guard, careful not to let the discussion spin away from me and into the forbidden topic.

"I mean the indefinable. I mean minds that defy study, minds that call for… I don't know, a customized diagnosis, one that will only ever fit them, because they're not quite antisocial, not quite borderline, not quite schizophrenic—nothing fits. And yet psychology tries to cram them into tiny little pre-existing cubes, you see? It's inflexible."

"I see," said Wilson slowly. "And… what minds are you talking about, exactly?"

I paused, staring at him, then caught the edge of my tongue between my molars and grinned disingenuously at him. "Minds like Batman's, for instance."

I saw his lips twitch in exasperation. "Harley."

"Look, psychology is _flawed. _In theory, it's good for the everyday mental kinks that people suffer, but it can't keep up with what's actually happening in real life, David. You're asking me to put my faith in a field that's never seen anything like what's happening in Gotham? _Why_?"

Wilson studied me for a moment, then appeared to reach a decision. He flipped open the folder resting on the desk in front of him. "Well," he said, "the Joker's an enigma, certainly, and I can't speak for Batman, but _you're_ not as difficult to work out. Let's see… I've got obsessive behavior, antisocial tendencies, Stockholm syndrome, now apparently delusions of grandeur… what do you think, Harley, am I missing something _indefinable _in you?"

I didn't take offense; I'd heard it all before. Leaning back, I shrugged. "Hey, sounds just fine for your typical psych black-and-white."

He stared at me, and I was certain that he was going to push further, try to force me to offer a defense, but suddenly, abruptly, he flipped the file shut and stood up. "I think we'll cut today's session short," he said.

I wasn't quite sure how to react. He'd never done this before. He always seemed to want to milk our sessions for every last second.

_Maybe he's finally had enough of the abuse, _I thought with wary optimism as he sidestepped the table and went to the door, which buzzed open to accommodate him.

It seemed to take a long time to fall shut—and when it locked into place, the lights went out.

I couldn't help but flinch at the sudden darkness, even though I was half expecting some kind of trick. Darkness outside of the asylum was fine (even welcome, often providing a neat cover under which to perform mischief), but inside… inside that particular establishment, darkness was dangerous.

Unbidden, my mind darted to Jonathan, thinking about his brief term as asylum director, the rumors I'd heard while working there about experiments conducted on unknowing patients, and a chill shot down my spine. I refused to go flying to the door, refused to show just how spooked I was, but I felt a little too insecure to sit _completely_ still, so I straightened up and pulled my knees up to my chest, waiting there for the orderly to come fetch me.

A sudden laugh ripped through the blackness, sharp and choking and instantly recognizable.

I froze. _He's here, _was my first, uncensored thought, though almost immediately I realized that it was impossible. Defying logic, though, the voice went on: "Where've _you _been, huh? Why so glum, Haaarley?"

_Don't say anything, _I told myself fiercely. _It's a trick. _Still, I couldn't quell my physical response—like a junkie kept too long from a fix, my body began to tremble, and I tightened my arms around my knees to try to control it, to little avail.

"Aren't you feeling… ahh, restless? Why're you still waiting around in this _dreary _old building?"

I realized that I was forgetting to breathe and pulled in some air, shakily. With oxygen came a bit of clarity; I realized that the words were familiar, patched together from various sessions we'd had when he was my patient at Arkham. It didn't help much—I hadn't heard his voice in months (part of my 'therapy'), so having it tear into me so suddenly while sensually isolated in the dark did a number on me.

The voice started again, and I didn't care who might be watching through the darkness. I screwed my eyes shut and lifted my arms, working around the cuffed wrists to press them so hard against my ears that I couldn't hear anything but the blood flowing.

I sat like that for a while, until from behind my eyelids I saw light and opened my eyes to see that the door was open, the light was on, and the same orderly who brought me here was standing at the door, looking concerned. "Miss Quinzel? They said you wouldn't be through till seven o'clock."

Carefully, as though I might break into pieces if I moved too quickly, I stood from my chair. "Change of plans, apparently," I said, immediately embarrassed by how small and decidedly not-intimidating my voice was but suddenly too drained to fluff up my feathers and try to act tough.

He took a closer look at me and came into the room, quickly taking my elbow. "You're white as a ghost. What'd they do to you?"

"It's nothing," I said faintly. "I just… I'd like to go to my room for the night, please."

He looked at me doubtfully. "You're scheduled for dinner and social time in the cafeteria…" He trailed off, and I must have looked pretty pathetic, because he cleared his throat and said, "I reckon there'll be time for that tomorrow. Come on, let's get you to your quarters."

He escorted me through the barren halls, and I found myself grateful for his hand on my arm as we went—the shakiness and weak knees didn't subside once I got out of that room, unfortunately.

I was fortunate enough to have a room to myself. While the men's area was overcrowded, sometimes resulting in four people to a room, the women's section was comparatively sparse. The rooms were set up to accommodate two inmates apiece, but the women of Gotham, by and large, seemed to either be holding on to their sanity or losing their minds in quieter, less criminal ways than the men—there weren't even enough of us to fill all the available cells.

The orderly took me to mine and removed the cuffs in silence. I went shakily to my cot and sat on the edge, and the orderly, standing in the doorway, cleared his throat. "I'll… see if I can bring you up some supper."

I glanced up, having expected him to leave, already halfway to my own little world. "What? Oh… no, I'm not hungry. Thank you, though."

"You need to eat, Miss Quinzel," he said, a hint of warning in his tone. I glanced up, and it really didn't take much effort to make my eyes bright with tears—for some reason, they were on the verge anyway. He saw, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then muttered, "Oh, hell. Just this once, you understand? I don't need to get fired for letting you break routine."

I nodded quickly, reaching up to touch the skin just beneath my eyes, making sure it was still dry. The orderly nodded, and then stepped back and closed the door. I heard the sound of the heavy lock sliding into place, and then, finally, I was alone.

Slowly, I toed my shoes off and then pulled my legs up onto the thin mattress. I laid down facing the wall, closed my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to think about the night that had landed me in this hellhole in the first place.

* * *

_**Three Months Ago**_

It was obscenely hot for a May evening in Gotham, and as I pulled the black ski cap free of my hair, I reminded myself to ask Ivy again about the best ways to reduce the effects of global warming in an urban area. Not that my partner would give a damn; if I was going to terrorize the city council into saving the trees, I would be doing it alone.

I happened to be away from him that night, though not because I was pursuing my own interests—no, the goal that night was to perform a multi-zoned operation of the Joker's own design. He himself was just a few miles to the north, in Midtown, and still more men were Uptown, close to the borders of the city proper. The group up north would act first, blowing up a monorail station and drawing attention away from the city's center. Once the police were focused on the crime scene, I would move.

I was planted outside of a warehouse in the Meatpacking District, near the Admiral Docks. Not just any warehouse, though—no, as it so happened, this particular warehouse belonged to Sal Maroni. The Joker had intel that Maroni was using the place as a safe house for cash from a recent take. However, the object was _not_, as Ace had first suggested, to take the money—a Maroni cash house was far from an easy target; external security was limited so as not to rouse suspicion, but inside, the place would be crawling with guys armed to the teeth and lacking a sense of humor. No, there wasn't much the Joker liked better than throwing his colleagues well off-balance, so our goal that night was simple—_warehouse go boom_.

So, we'd been sitting across the street from the mark for about thirty minutes, scoping it out, sitting against the tires on the side of the van opposite the warehouse, and waiting for the call. Not surprisingly, we'd started to get bored.

"Okay. I've got one."

Javier and I turned our heads attentively towards Kenny, a fairly new henchman, younger than he looked—a bit defensive, but one of the more normal guys we worked with overall. Another henchman, Toots, sat in the driver's seat of the van, sulking in silent protest of the fact that Javier and I had taken it upon ourselves to teach Kenny the finer points of Would You Rather.

Kenny, assured of our attention, proceeded. "Okay, so, would you rather… have to deal with a five hour nosebleed, or be locked in a room with Batman for one minute?"

I snorted, and Javier said, "I'm pretty sure that in a minute, Batman would give you plenty of _other _injuries that would bleed for five hours."

"Oh, come on," I disagreed. "All you have to do is dodge him for sixty seconds."

"Harley, he's hard enough to hide from in the open air," Javier argued. "In a twelve-by-twelve room? I don't like your chances."

"Whoa, when did we specify the size of the room?"

Kenny, looking from me to Javier and back again, asked, "Is this… part of the game?"

"Yes," Javier and I said in unison, and Javier went on: "I imagine that if we're being locked in with the Batman, it's going to be your average police interrogation room—that is, not very big. Even the boss wasn't able to escape a beating in that scenario."

"Wait, what?" I demanded. "The Joker was in an interrogation room with Batman?"

"Yeah, during the whole Harvey Dent situation, before he went to the nuthouse for the first time."

"Why didn't I know about this?" I asked, frowning.

"I doubt the cops publicized it. They weren't working with him, remember?" Javier reminded me, cracking a sardonic grin. "Unless you heard it from the boss himself, I'm not surprised you didn't know, and he's not really one to sit around reminiscing about his jail time, so since you weren't there…"

"Damn," I said, making a mental note to ask J about it later.

"Um. Guys?" Kenny ventured softly, and we both glanced at him again.

"Nosebleed for five hours," Javier said.

I shook my head. "Uh-_uh_. Room with Batman for a minute."

"Well, of course _you're _gonna say that," Kenny chuckled.

I paused and glanced sideways at him. "What do you mean by that?"

I felt Javier go still, doubtless refraining from moving until he understood the line of questioning. Kenny obviously picked up on the shift in mood, glancing rapidly from me to Javier and back again, and he stuttered an answer: "Just… I feel like he'd have trouble hittin' a girl, that's all."

I watched him contemplatively, and after a moment, I nodded, hearing Javier shift and relax as I said, "Well, if he does, that's his problem." Kenny all but wiped nervous sweat from his brow.

I didn't blame them their nerves. For a while, conscious of my relatively fragile status in their eyes, I'd openly called out anyone who even implied I wasn't up to the task—especially due to my gender. This habit of mine was pretty effective for three reasons. First, the Joker never intervened—my battles with the henchmen were mine alone. Second, they almost always ended in violence, and third, I'd been trained for six months by the Joker, meaning the threat of violence from me had grown considerable. They may have been stronger, but I was faster, and by this point, much sneakier.

However, as I'd stayed with the group for months on end, as henchmen had rotated endlessly and I'd stayed put, people seemed to get the message, and far fewer taunted me than used to. Kenny's statement—not even questioning me; just the truth—was far from over the line.

Staring at the rundown old building we were parked in front of, I said, "You know, he saved my life once."

"Who? Batman?" Javier demanded. "Why didn't I know about this?"

"Yeah, during the boss's first escape from Arkham. You know—he threw me off the roof." Kenny was gaping by then. "Batman had to choose between following _him _and saving me, and—well, he chose me. Obviously."

Kenny, having quickly adjusted to the image of the Joker throwing someone off a roof, laughed: "I bet he wishes he hadn't now."

I frowned, wondering for a moment if that was true. The Batman had always been very careful with human life—with the exception of Harvey Dent, but the Joker seemed so adamantly convinced that that was somehow a frame job that I'd begun to believe him. It was hard to see him wishing death on me, despite the extra trouble my new role had caused him throughout the past few months. I wanted very much to pretend that I simply didn't care, that Batman was the enemy—worse, a considerable rival for the Joker's attentions (possibly even affections).

The truth, though, was that my feelings towards Batman were complicated. On the one hand, he _was _the enemy, a brute totally lacking sophistication, seemingly believing that he could pound crime out of existence with his bare fists. On the other hand… well, he _had _saved my life, which I supposed was worth taking into consideration. Additionally, as much as we all lived in fear of the Batman showing up while we were working one of these _errands, _there was also next to no chance the Joker would end up dead at the end of one of his encounters with the Bat. With the police, on the other hand, there was always the possibility that some cop would finally decide that some limited jail time would be a small price to pay for permanently ridding Gotham of its biggest menace and just open fire. Although Batman was the biggest and most consistent threat to our operation, at least I didn't have to be afraid that he'd someday shoot J in the back.

I hoped.

Before I could mire myself too deeply in that train of thought, the cell phone in my pocket beeped. "Finally," I breathed, fishing it out. The text I'd just received just said "_Rube Goldberg_." I grinned and tucked the phone away again, standing. "It's time to go, boys."

The henchmen clambered to their feet, and I gestured at Javier. "Give me the stuff," I said, referring to the knapsack full of C4 I was supposed to slip in through one of the basement windows.

Javier, however, was not as gung-ho about the idea as I was. "I don't think you should do it."

I frowned, irked. "Oh, okay. Let me just call up the boss and tell him the plan's off because Javier got cold feet. What the hell?"

"Harley—finger off the trigger, okay?" he said irritably. "I didn't say I wanted to call off the job completely. I've just got a feeling."

"A feeling," I repeated, awaiting clarification. Javier got _feelings _a lot—he was a superstitious sunovabitch—and most of the time, the Joker declined to indulge him by hearing him out. I, on the other hand, had a soft spot for him, and more often than not, I was willing to do things his way.

"Yeah," he said, a touch defensively, glancing over the roof of the van at the silent warehouse up the street. "It's been… really quiet. I think Kenny and I oughta do a casual walkby, make sure everything looks all right before you go in. Fair?"

I studied him for a minute, then shrugged. "Hey, fine with me. Hurry, though—and take your phone, call to tell me the coast is clear and I'll follow."

"Wait, what?" Toots spoke up from the driver's seat, sitting up from his slouch for the first time since he'd retreated there to sulk half an hour ago.

I shot him a glance. "What?"

"That's not the plan," he said, scratching at his neck nervously as he glanced down the road at the warehouse.

I shook my head dismissively. "It's recon, Toots. Don't be so prescriptive; he's just gonna go check things out then I'll follow right away."

Toots' scratching grew more intense. "Boss wouldn't like it," he all but whined.

"Yeah, well, right now, _I'm _the boss, and I say it's okay," I said, exasperated—usually, the henchmen assisting me on jobs didn't raise any concerns, and the delays were starting to annoy me. "Javier, can you hurry up and check it out before Toots scrapes all the skin off his neck?"

"Will do, boss lady." Javier turned, grabbing Kenny by the shoulder. "C'mon, kid. Get your hood down; you don't have to worry about anyone in there IDing you and it just looks suspicious."

Kenny scrambled to obey, and the two of them set off towards the warehouse, crossing the street without looking both ways (and I almost called out to scold them before resigning myself to the fact that it wouldn't do any good). Toots sat back, giving up but still making little distressed noises in his throat. I ignored him, leaning my shoulder against the side of the van and watching as the others approached the warehouse. On cue, my phone rang.

"How's it look?" I asked by way of answer.

"Ghost town," Javier replied. "You sure there's people inside?"

"Hey, that's what he told me."

"Yeah, well, I'm not seein' anything by way of security. No cameras, no guards, nothin'." I watched as he and Kenny paused in front of the gate; Javier put a hand out to stop him and then slowly approached the fence.

"What?" I asked, craning my neck to try to see what he saw.

"There's something right inside the gate. Looks like… an old jacket or something."

I frowned, walking around to the back of the van to see clearer. "Javier. It's the city. There's trash every—"

"Shit," he hissed, and I saw him jump back.

"_What_?"

"Red light—" is all he managed to get out before the gate spat out a cloud of blinding fire and ear-shattering sound, consuming him and Kenny. A hundred and fifty yards away, a wave of heat smashed into me, making my complaints about the hot spring night earlier laughable, and asphalt and gravel shaken loose from the street peppered my face and body as my hearing cut out. Reflexively, I held up my hands, dropping my phone as I tried to protect myself from the shrapnel. As I hunched down, trying blindly to occupy as little space as possible, I remember thinking numbly _one-quarter kilo of C4 has a blast radius of one meter, I must be eighty meters away, that means if they used more than twenty kilos then I'm done for—_

And then, it stopped. A few little stones spattered against my shielding arms, and then my hearing slowly swam back to me, announcing itself by the shrill whine in my ears. Slowly, I lowered my arms from my head and tried to stand. It was asking too much from my shock-weakened knees, and instead of moving upright, I found myself suddenly sprawled on the ground behind the van.

I was still facing the warehouse. The front of it was ravaged by the explosion, on fire, and smoke billowed up thickly from the bomb site, obscuring my view of anything detailed.

Even though I saw no bodies or blood and my mind was sluggish with fear, I knew. Javier was dead, and if he hadn't insisted on checking things out beforehand, it would have been me.

* * *

I dragged myself, gasping, out of the memory, back to the cold reality of the asylum. I wasn't surprised to find my face wet, and as I struggled to breathe, more tears slipped from my eyes to join the others.

I didn't want to think about this anymore. I knew, though, that unless I did something to prevent it, I would go on reliving that memory against my will.

Not all of the cells were padded. Those were reserved for patients with a history of self-harm or psychotic breaks that might lead them to hurt themselves unintentionally. I, however, was neither prone to psychosis nor self-injury—usually—so I had a regular old hard-walled cell.

I turned my face to the wall to which my cot was bolted. Without a second thought, I reeled back and bashed my forehead against it as hard as I could.

Stars exploded in front of my eyes, lighting up the darkness of my room for a split second. It'd been a while since I'd seen those stars; I remembered what they meant. Gratefully, I fell backwards against the pillow as dizziness seized me, knowing that the vertigo would shortly yield to oblivion.

The stars disappeared, and I was smiling in exhausted relief when the blackness seized me.

* * *

**A/N** – So… does Harley's annoyance with the field of psychology sound familiar? To be fair, she's not parroting anything—what she said was very much her own heartfelt opinion, but it's definitely not one she would have reached had she not been living in open exposure to the Joker and all his… everything. Has a bit of a decaying effect on one's sense of social obligation, I imagine (also one's concern for one's physical wellbeing, apparently). Although to be fair, when faced with Wilson the way he's been of late, we might _all _start delivering anti-social tirades.

Oh, and it didn't start out this way, but I'd be lying if I didn't say eventually the unnamed orderly in this chapter (and a few more along the line) started looking and sounding a hell of a lot like Barney from the Hannibal series. I've plucked elements from those books like a big ol' hack from the beginning; Polite Orderly might as well join the list.

Er… and I'm sorry about Javier, truly. I loved him, but you know, when your boss is an _asshole_, things tend to go south unexpectedly. So there's part one of the two-part tale of how Harley ended up as an inmate in the asylum where she used to work. Part two—the longer, more complicated part—is coming soon. In the meantime—this chapter's song is on the blog, thank you guys for talking to me, _keep_ talking to me! I'm tidying up certain parts of the (still unfinished but we're getting there _fast-_ I've officially exceeded the word count of the original and we've probably got 15k to go) draft, and interaction with y'all motivates me. So until next time!


	4. it's not enough to stay here

**Chapter Three**

**it's not enough to stay here**

_Half life wastes before it goes  
It's funny how your bee sting touch never leaves me whole  
It's not enough to stay here almost trying  
You keep your last laugh, watch this dying_

**-Sneaker Pimps, **_**Half Life**_

I didn't get up the next morning until the 7:00 wake-up call—that is, the morning guard coming on shift, standing at the end of the hallway, and bellowing that it was time to get up, go, get our asses out of bed, inspections in five.

My head throbbed, the pain originating from an extremely tender spot just above my right brow, and for a second, I lay in bed with my eyes closed, letting the familiar sensation tug a lazy daydream from me: _I'm not here at all, I'm back at the hideout, waking up the morning after a fight, and he's forgotten about it in the night, is lying right next to me, all I have to do is turn over and reach for him…_

But of course he wasn't, and I couldn't. My eyelids flickered open slowly, and I sat up on my bunk, slipping my feet into the laceless shoes that came standard with the shitty rough asylum uniforms. I eyeballed the dull orange of the jumpsuit shirt before sighing and pulling it on over the holey wifebeater I slept in, mumbling, "Fucking hacks, everyone knows the human eye gets bored without a variety of color, all this orange and white is gonna just drive us all _crazier_, unbe_lievable_…"

Once I'd wrestled my shirt on, I faced the fact that I'd gotten up on the wrong (albeit _only_) side of the bed this morning, and I might as well resign myself to it. As I bent down and touched my toes, limbering up after, by the feel of it, sleeping in the same position all night, I gave myself permission to be grouchy—just as long as it didn't result in me getting hit with the anti-psychotics. I couldn't afford that.

Still, it was tempting to see if Zsaz would trade me for a shiv, then wait until Doctor Wilson showed his face in the communal area and then stab him in his fucking throat. After all, his little trick last night had prompted the reliving of the memory that had resulted in me bashing my head against the wall in the first place, and now, a good few hours away from the shivering mess I'd been last night, I was no longer sad and scared—just pissed off.

_Stay away from the anti-psychotics, _I reasoned with myself as the doors swung open for inspection.

After inspection came medicine time. They were currently giving me lithium to regulate a potential bipolar disorder, fluoxetine to even out my mood and take the edge off of my "obsessive" behavior, and ziprasidone to keep me from getting depressed and to keep the violent outbursts to a minimum. In addition to the fact that I wasn't fucking crazy, I also wasn't a fan of the lack of focus, the nausea, and the restlessness that came along with this particular drug cocktail.

Fortunately, unlike everyone but Crane, I'd worked at Arkham before, knew all of the tricks. I'd sucked it up for the first couple of weeks, taking the medicine and patiently submitting to their full-mouth searches. Once they slacked off, just checking on and beneath my tongue, I'd started shifting the pills, pouching them tightly beside my gums and out of sight. After the mouth check, I'd just wait for a minute alone and crush the pills on the ground under my shoe, smearing the dust away into nothing. It had been months and no one had caught me at it.

The morning passed quickly, with a breakfast of greasy eggs and hard bread that I didn't touch. After breakfast came a brief communal hour with my fellow female inmates, all of whom were more drugged up than I was, which just killed their conversational skills. That was fine with me; I sat by the barred window and looked out at the gray city.

Art therapy came next, and although I found it the most useless out of _all _my useless sessions, it was also my favorite. Dr. Mori, who ran the sessions, had a bachelor's degree in art to go along with her doctorate in psychology and counseling, and she was supremely laid-back, seeing progress in every brush stroke. That morning, she kept shooting me worried looks, and I was baffled until I remembered the tender spot on my forehead. Mirrors (or even mirrored surfaces) were in short supply in Arkham, but I was willing to guess there was a nice blue bruise already growing there. Hopefully it wasn't too bad; foreheads didn't bruise as badly as most other places.

She kept up with the worried glances, but she didn't come to interrogate me about the mark. I was actually starting to relax and forget how badly the morning started until I glanced down at the pad I'd been painting absently. Red and black criss-crossed the white page, and although they weren't in a particularly discernible shape, I pulled back immediately with a muttered profanity. I trashed the page, still under Dr. Mori's worried eyes, and headed to lunch freshly annoyed.

Because it had been about a month since my last real outburst, I was allowed to go to the communal lunch room shared by the male and female inmates who had been behaving themselves—under very careful guard, of course, and only for about a half-hour a day, but it was a form of reward for good behavior (the theory also being that socialization, even socialization with fellow crazies, was good for the inmates). As usual, I wasn't too thrilled at the idea of mingling, but it turned out they didn't take too kindly to requests for private in-cell meals, so into the common room I went.

I got in line, arms crossed under my chest, shoulders slightly hunched, making no eye contact—sending every signal that meant _don't look at me, don't talk to me, I'm not here _that I could think of. Predictably, that's when Crane decided to step in line behind me.

His condescending drawl, right above my shoulder, announced his presence. "_You're_ looking a little tense this morning. Med shortage?"

I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on the kitchen, but I did tilt my head a little bit as I muttered, "Oh, well, excuse the fuck outta me for being cranky. That couldn't have _anything _to do with my being locked in a prison with idiots in charge."

I could hear the smirk in his voice as he asked, "Art therapy not going well?"

Any other day, I'd have cracked a smirk in response, played along, complained sarcastically about Dr. Mori's oppressive standards, but the events of the night before were still a little too close for comfort, and I wasn't up for any sort of playfulness. I heaved a tired sigh. "Look, Jonathan," I said as we reached the end of the line and I took up my plastic tray, "I like you, but today I'm just not in a very sociable mood. Do me a favor and hold off till next time?"

Lunch today was more of the same hard bread, a pocket of mashed potatoes, and a Salisbury steak that looked more like rubber and was drenched in dubious brown sauce. This was the fourth day running we hadn't had any fruit or vegetables that weren't pure starch. Pam would _die _cooped up in here.

Crane gathered his tray and was right at my shoulder as I spotted an unoccupied table that looked ideal for my planned brooding session. "Aw, I'm sorry to hear that. It wouldn't have anything to do with that bruise coming along on your forehead, would it?"

I stopped short and shot a vicious look at him. Naturally, he ignored the warning, pausing mid-step as well, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he looked me in the eyes and said, "What, missing your lover's fists so much that you have to inflict your own—"

I didn't even let him get the sentence out. I reeled back with my tray and cracked him across the face. Granted, the trays were made of light plastic, nothing damaging in themselves, but they _were _blunt objects, and although shitty food and limited exercise meant I was weaker now than I was coming into the Asylum, I still put plenty of heft into it—enough, at least, to knock his glasses flying. He stumbled back, and I jabbed the edge of the tray hard into his diaphragm, hearing the air rush out of him with a satisfying _oomf_ sound. I jerked back to hit him again, and then they were onto me.

First impulse was to fight for all I was worth, spitting curses (and actual spit) the whole way, but even as I tensed up in preparation, common sense reared up, and I went limp, letting them pull me back without resisting. Hitting a fellow inmate was one thing—we were all supposedly crazy and violent; the occasional spat was to be expected. Hitting doctors or orderlies, though, was a one-way ticket to a thorazine injection, and even though I'd already lost my temper, I still had no desire to be taken out for the rest of the day.

My hunch proved correct. Although they pulled me immediately out of the room (my last sight was of a food-covered Crane wheezily bending over to find his glasses, which I found immensely satisfying), they didn't inject me with anything, just took me straight to my cell and left me there.

And then went on leaving me there. Normally, a violent act like mine would be immediately followed by a disciplinary meeting with the next available therapist so I could discuss what had happened and I why I felt compelled to act out in such an unhealthy manner, but this time, an hour trickled away like nothing, with no sign of anyone coming to get me, either for a session or to resume the morning routine.

I paced my cell, wondering for a little while if Crane had been seriously hurt. I dismissed the thought promptly—the trays were _plastic_, after all, no sharp edges, and I hadn't even broken his glasses. Still, I couldn't help but feel a little ache of worry. He _was _my only friend in the place, after all (and I had no doubt that he would continue to be, even after the unfortunate incident—he was as bored here as I was, couldn't afford to sever ties over one little scuffle).

My stomach nagged at me, reminding me that I had eaten neither breakfast nor lunch. Of course, I hadn't been _planning _to eat my lunch, but my hunger gave me something to focus on other than my worry—and other than the conclusion of the memory I'd partially relived last night.

Eventually, the door opened. At those point, I'd settled down on the bed and was staring at the wall, trying to think about nothing whatsoever with moderate success, and so I stood up immediately, relieved that _something_, at least, was happening.

It was the orderly whose name I was studiously not-learning. He peered down his nose at me and said, "That wasn't a very nice thing you did to Crane, Dr. Quinzel."

I shrugged, most of my rancor having drained away by now. I was still cranky, though, and so I couldn't help saying, a little mutinously, "Neither was what he said to me, but watch him get out clean while I have to deal with discipline."

"Well, Dr. Crane didn't get violent with you."

"Yeah, not _inside_ the asylum," I snorted. "Get him out of here, give him a couple of days to manufacture some of his nightmare gas, then tell me he's the patron saint of chivalry."

I got the faintest of smiles, then he stepped aside. "Come on, now."

"Where are going?" I asked, going along gamely enough—at least I was getting to leave my cell.

"Now, Dr. Quinzel, you know they don't tell me anything."

I snorted. "Fair enough." After another few strides, I stopped dead. "I don't have to meet with Wilson again, do I?"

He paused beside me. "I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure he's dealing with a different fight all the way across the asylum. You got lucky today; you didn't draw blood, so your fight got upstaged."

I grinned a little, relieved at the thought that I wouldn't be subject to whatever Wilson was up to again so soon afterwards, and kept going. We got to the examination room, he cuffed me as usual, and I went in and sat down.

I'd only been waiting for a minute or two when the door opened and someone came in. I looked up, fully expecting to see any one of the battery of doctors who had been guiding me through therapy since my incarceration, and so I was mildly surprised to find a complete stranger, a black woman of about forty whose black hair fell in a cloud of curls around her face. No glasses, no lab coat, though she held the usual clipboard loaded down with information about me.

She began talking the moment she'd closed the door. "Good afternoon, Dr. Quinzel, I'm Dr. Joan Leland. You'll have to forgive me, I'm technically not supposed to be meeting with you until tomorrow, but the incident with Dr. Crane earlier in the common room combined with half the usual doctors being out sick today pushed the schedule up a bit. Lucky us, huh?"

I remained quiet, arms folded, watching her. I had no idea what sort of person she was, and until I knew which approach she planned on taking, I couldn't exactly plan out my own reaction.

"All… right," she murmured as she sat down and flipped through the clipboard. I recognized the motions something I used to do myself—pretending to be busy during the very first meeting with a patient, heighten your respectability while also buying yourself time to gauge the feel of the room and get comfortable on your own. I had no doubt that she knew my file all the way through.

"All right," she repeated again after another moment, looking up at me with a brief smile. "The first thing I'm tasked with is talking to you about the incident this afternoon in the lunch room—which, believe me, I know isn't ideal, given that you don't know me at all. Still, given that it's my first week and it'd keep Wilson off my back… take a little pity on me, will you?"

Maybe some other day, I'd have been untouched, but after last night, I wasn't willing to give Dr. Wilson the opportunity to play King of the Castle any more than he was already able. I cleared my throat quietly and acquiesced: "Jonathan and I are friends, believe it or not. He just said something… very rude about the bruise on my head, and I lost my temper."

"Mm…hmm," she hummed, jotting down a note on the clipboard. "Any chance you're willing to tell me what he said?"

I remained quiet. She only let the silence linger for a second before saying, "Okay. And the bruise itself? Want to tell me how you got that?"

I sighed, then told her, "I hit it on the wall last night. I was having a bad dream."

"Okay," she said, almost to herself, jotting that down as well. She glanced over the notes she had just taken, and then set the clipboard neatly down, laced her hands together, and met my eyes. "I understand meeting with a therapist you've never met before doesn't exactly inspire one to become a fount of information, so let me first assure you that I don't expect that, and secondly, let me give you a bit of information about me and about how this session came about so that we're on the same page. Sound good to you?"

Still favoring the silent approach, I nodded once. So far, my opinion of her was fairly neutral, though her understanding that she shouldn't push on the first session and the fact that she hadn't even mentioned the Joker so far made me inclined to think a little better of her than was usual for new doctors. I was interested in seeing if this impression tanked with whatever she was about to say.

She nodded back, then started: "As I said, I'm Joan Leland and I got my doctorate in psychology at Stanford University in 1995—and I'd appreciate if you wouldn't do the math on that. I initially worked in care facilities for people who were self-committed, and after about five years of that, I moved to an institution that looked after people who had been committed by their families or by a court order. After another five years, I made the switch to institutions for the criminally insane, and I've been working in that field ever since.

"I came to Arkham a week ago, after Doctor Wilson noticed that I'd expressed interest in working here. The _reason_ I expressed interest is that Gotham City seems to have a peculiarly high number of patients for the type of institution it is, in addition to a higher re-committal rate than I've ever seen. I'm interested in observing why, in addition, of course, to helping wherever I can. This indirectly relates to you."

She paused, making sure I hadn't zoned out, and I nodded at her, letting her know I was still with her. "I'm going to be completely honest with you, Harley—I don't think you're legally insane." She paused for a reaction, and when I didn't give her one, plunged right back in: "And I don't want you to see that as some form of threat, because the courts have ruled what they've ruled, and I'm not going to argue with them. However, the fact remains that insanity is a _legal _state, meaning that at the time you committed the crime or crimes of which you were accused, you were mentally _incapable _of telling right from wrong. One can have any number of mental disturbances, up to and including severe personality disorders and chemical imbalances, without being _insane_."

"I know," I said, the slightest of edges to my voice.

She took the interjection in perfect stride. "Yes, Doctor—I'm recapping to keep my own thoughts organized, not because I suspect you've forgotten. The point is merely that in your case, and many, many other cases of inmates exhibiting antisocial or disturbed behavior that I've observed in my year or so of studying this asylum in my spare time, I've noted that the courts seem to prefer shutting you away in Arkham rather than sending you to a proper prison."

"You noticed that, too, huh?" I asked, giving her the very smallest of wry smiles.

"Naturally, you'd be aware of it. You _did _work here, after all, and you currently reside among the inmates in question. It's simply a point of interest that brought me here to observe what, exactly, about the inmates of Arkham Asylum resulted in their being confined _here _rather than in Blackgate Prison, where they'd likely be if they'd committed their crimes in any other city in the nation."

"It's an interesting phenomenon," I allowed, "and good luck studying it. I'm pretty sure you won't lack for data."

"That's my hope, Doctor Quinzel. However, just because I don't believe the majority of the inmates here are _insane _doesn't mean I think they're all healthy, well-adjusted people, which is why I'm _working _here rather than visiting for research purposes on weekends. I _do _think that most of the souls in here would benefit from having someone to offer a sympathetic ear and educated guidance. For whatever reason, Doctor Wilson believes that I might be of some help to _you _in particular, hence this session. So, now that you're up to speed, I'm going to save us both from potentially wasted time and ask you directly—do you think you'd be interested in continuing to meet with me?"

* * *

I told her yes.

I'm not exactly sure _why _I told her yes. Maybe it was because I was pleased that she was taking a respectful approach and addressing me almost as an equal rather than an unruly child. Maybe it was because the project she described sounded particularly interesting to me, that I thought I had a chance at getting her to share her research as she acquired it.

At any rate, I said yes, and she gave me one brief smile that completely obscured any triumph or doubt she might have been feeling at my agreement before announcing that since we weren't actually intended to meet tomorrow and since we had already discussed the incident with Crane, then we'd adjourn until our originally scheduled meeting time. That was fine by me. I needed some time to review my defenses and mental walls before I started "work" with a new shrink.

After the same orderly returned me to my cell, I proceeded to do just that, sitting quietly on my bunk and concentrating, going through all the techniques _I _would have used if I had me as a patient. For each idea, I came up with a defense, but the first and most important rule remained static—_never, ever speak the truth about the Joker._

My stunt with Crane had ensured that I would be without social privileges for at least a week, which I wasn't particularly torn up about, so instead of being escorted to the cafeteria with the rest of the women in the wing, dinner was brought to me instead. A nurse dropped off a thick Styrofoam tray (apparently, I'd lost my hard plastic privileges) that boasted a stale sandwich with one bare scrap of bologna on it, a giant pocket of beans, and a tiny carton of milk. If I hadn't been here and suffered through the meals for months already, I'd have thought I was being punished for the day's altercation. As it was, I knew it was standard fare.

I didn't realize I'd been waiting for something until the nurse who'd brought my tray left the room and the door locked securely behind her. Then, feeling a sudden rush of relief, I realized that I'd been patiently keeping myself occupied until I was left alone for the night. My mind jumped to the exact point where I'd left off during last night's trip down Memory Lane, and, with a day to subconsciously recover and prepare myself, I was ready to face it. I'd been avoiding the memory since my committal, violently jerking my mind away from the flashes I'd get here or there, trying to avoid pain. Now, though, I sensed that it was time.

I left the tray on the floor, the food untouched—my stomach was completely empty, but I had no appetite regardless, especially not for the tasteless mush on that tray. It wouldn't be the first time since my incarceration I'd gone a day without eating; I'd be fine. Instead, I moved to the bunk, very carefully thinking of nothing until I'd climbed up and laid down, pulling my feet up and turning on my side to face the wall.

Then, I closed my eyes and remembered.

* * *

**A/N** – I'm actually TERRIBLY sorry to leave you guys there, but the next section got SO long that it really needed its own chapter. I'll try to make up for it, give you the next chapter by the weekend instead of in a whole week. Every single one of you guys that reviewed this time around was super-cute; y'all need someone to buy you candy or coffee or something because you all deserve it.

Threw in another Bronson reference, because why not? Show of hands, who liked seeing Jonathan get beat down? Also: Joan Leland! I am all about those cool lady doctors, and also could not resist the opportunity to lampshade Arkham's frankly ridiculous habit of muddying the lines between insane and mentally ill, and there needs to be at least ONE competent doctor who isn't dealing with conflicts of interest on staff, so Joan it is.

And to the guest reviewer who asked if I was inferring if the Joker hallucinates: thank you, and yes—Heath Ledger descripted his take on the Joker as a" psychopathic, mass murdering, schizophrenic clown with zero empathy," and based on that and the fact that I believe Heath Ledger was a thoughtful and educated person who would know what a schizophrenia diagnosis entails, then I think there are some sensory things that are… definitely off with the Joker. I also think he's totally unbothered by it and can usually tell the difference between what's real and what isn't. We'll get more into the Joker's mental state as time goes on, but for now, that's the short answer.

Thank you to all of you who read and reviewed. You made my week. I'll have the next chapter up soon!


	5. i'd sell your heart to the junkman

**Chapter Four**

**i'd sell your heart to the junkman**

_I'd sell your heart to the junkman, baby  
For a buck, for a buck  
If you're looking for someone to pull you out of that ditch  
You're out of luck, you're out of luck!_

**-Tom Waits, **_**God's Away On Business**_

_**Three Months Ago, Cont.**_

One doesn't witness an explosion from a mere eighty meters and immediately recover. After my hearing more or less returned to me, after I came to the realization that the warehouse had blown up with Javier and Kenny in such close proximity that I'd be surprised if there was more left of them than a fingernail, I stood on the street for about ten seconds, completely still aside from my trembling.

The first thing to cut through the haze of shock was the sound of an engine trying desperately to turn over. I realized that I needed to get out, get away from the scene of the crime. I turned to the van, and my brain started moving again, catching up to me.

I remembered Toots, realized that he was the one trying so hard to start the van, and I understood. Cold iron filled my veins, I felt my strength renewed, and I started towards the driver's side, drawing the revolver I kept holstered at my side during missions as I went.

Toots was twisting the key hard enough to almost snap it in the ignition, panting heavily and letting loose a whimper here and there. I didn't waste time watching him—the only reason the van wasn't starting was because he was panicking too much to be patient with it, to give it a few more seconds to try to rouse itself. I didn't want to give him the chance.

I stepped around, in view of the open driver side window but at a wise distance from it, and brought my revolver up, pulling back the hammer to get his attention. "Show me your hands, Toots."

He froze, then his eyes flitted up to me and a little whine escaped from the corner of his mouth. I jabbed my revolver towards him. "_Now, _or I'll shoot you."

He hesitated. I twitched the gun a little to my left and fired.

He shrieked, grasping the shoulder that now bore a shiny new bullet wound, and before he could recover, I was ripping the door open, balling my fist in his sweatshirt and pulling hard. He was too focused on the fresh pain in his shoulder to stiffen up or resist, and so I didn't have trouble slinging him from the seat onto the pavement like so much dead weight.

_Fast, fast, fast, _I thought in an endless stream to myself, aware that he could recover at any second and start fighting back, that the police were on their way. Still feeling that metallic chill running up my spine, giving me strength, I ripped Toots' Sig Sauer out of his holster and tossed it clear, up onto the driver's seat. Then, I bent down and grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt, reorienting the barrel of my revolver so that it pointed directly at the bridge of his nose. He went cross-eyed trying to keep it in his sights.

"Toots," I said, keeping my voice level, even a little sweet. "Did the boss tell you to make sure _I _was the one who approached the warehouse when he said go?"

His eyes skittered off to the left, a strangled moan emerging from his throat. I gave him a second, and when his jaw tightened, signifying his (stupid) decision to stay loyal to the Bigger Boss, I indulged in a split second's eyeroll. Then, sharply, half-barking, I said, "Toots!"

My tone drew his reluctant gaze back to my face. Fighting past teeth that wanted to clench in anger, fighting the fear that was starting to crawl up in my throat, I said, "I know you're scared of telling his secrets. He's a scary person. Unpredictable, too. You never know if he's going to reward disloyalty with a pat on the back or a bullet in the brains. The thing is, though—he's not _here _right now, and I am, and I'm _promising_ you—" Here, I pulled back the hammer for the second time to underscore my point—"That if you don't answer my questions, I _will _kill you. That's certain death right now versus potential death later—and that's only a possibility _if _you don't choose to just get the hell out of town as soon as I let you go. So let me ask you again: _did. _The Boss. Tell _you._ To make sure _I_ was on the receiving end of that bomb?"

He was breathing heavily through his nostrils. He looked about five seconds away from cracking, but I wasn't getting any younger. I made sure my finger was clear of the trigger guard—didn't want any accidents—and, to help him reach his decision, jammed the barrel of the gun hard into the center of the bloodstain blooming on his shoulder.

He yelped in pain, and as soon as his mouth was open, the answer came pouring out: "Yes! Yes, he told me _you _had to be the one to go!"

Without my permission, my eyes drifted shut. _I knew it. _A split second later, they snapped open again and I withdrew the barrel of my gun from Toots' fresh bullet wound, training it again on his face. "Is he still going through with his part of the plan?"

A bit of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he clenched his teeth against the pain, and when his eyes refocused on me, he looked confused. "Wh—what do you?"

"Is he still in _Cathedral Square_, Toots?" I demanded.

"Y—I mean, as far as I know, yes," he stammered.

That was all I needed. I didn't waste another word on him, standing up and stepping over him to climb into the van, pausing only to move his Sig to the passenger seat. I slammed the door behind me, then reached for the key in the ignition and twisted it, holding it in place as the engine sputtered, struggled, and finally, after about five seconds, turned over and roared with vitality. If I'd had an extra second, I might have tossed a smug look out the window at Toots, but I'd loitered for a full minute at least getting information out of him, and I needed to get away from the burning warehouse as soon as humanly possible. I took off from the curb, heading northeast.

I was lucky. I didn't start seeing the flashing lights of police cruisers until I was already on the bridge exiting the island, and they were heading in the opposite direction. I told myself I probably shouldn't stick with the van for much longer, just in case some nosy witness had taken down the license plate, but figured I'd be all right for a little while. I didn't need long; Cathedral Square was only five or ten minutes away even _in _city traffic.

As I drove, I felt the steel in my veins start to heat up. With Toots, I'd been focused on getting my answers and getting the hell out of Dodge, but now, I was alone and presumably safe for a little while. I had time to think about what I'd discovered, and I was starting to put it all together. Unsurprisingly, it pissed me off.

We'd been getting along fine, no real fights for several weeks—which should have been an indicator of the fact that he was up to something, but idiot that I was, I'd taken it to mean that he'd forgotten the little incident in February, three months back. He'd been deathly ill. I'd drugged him and handcuffed him to a bed so he would actually have a shot at recovering. He'd been extremely pissed off at me the whole time, so after releasing him, I skipped out to stay with Pam for a week, to let him cool off so he could see that I'd actually been _helping _him.

When I got back, he seemed to have forgotten the whole thing. This wasn't unusual—six months of living with the man had taught me that for all of his genius strategizing, he was scatterbrained as hell when it came to the littler things. Still, I wasn't willing to trust that he wasn't lulling me into a false sense of security before retaliating, so I'd stayed wary for a few weeks. When a major fight came and went without any uncalled-for levels of violence, without any mention of his captivity, I slowly began to think that he actually had forgotten.

That was about two months before the warehouse explosion, and as I drove towards Cathedral Square, I was forced to admit that the bomb _must _have been his retaliation.

I became aware that a tear had slipped from my left eye, and from the feel of it, was soon to be followed by others. Angrily, I bunched my sleeve up around the heel of my hand and dashed at my lower lids, sweeping the moisture away. Okay, it hurt. It hurt a _lot_, the idea that the Joker valued his independence so much and me so little that he was willing to risk my life like that—and I didn't necessarily believe that his intent was, without a doubt, to _kill _me. He was a man of unbelievable foresight and would have suspected Javier's superstition, Toots' inability to put his foot down, Kenny's inexperience, and my own tendency towards improvisation—he would have known that there was a good chance I wouldn't be the one to go near that bomb.

But there was also a good chance that I_ would. _And the understanding that he apparently didn't give a damn which way it played out felt like a knife slowly twisting in my belly. I was hurt.

And _pissed._

I fought the urge to drive swiftly and recklessly, knowing that the last thing I needed tonight was to be chased down by the police. Still, despite my tame speed, I reached Cathedral Square in what felt like moments.

I recognized a familiar van parked on the street across from St. Peter's, the church for which the square was named, despite the fact that there was no motion immediately visible through the window. The knowledge that he was, in fact, inside the church, as planned, made me want to leap out of the vehicle and blitz recklessly inside, but once again, I restrained myself.

_Just one second. Just one more second, and then you can have at him._

I hadn't been wearing my makeup for a simple warehouse job with no public exposure. There were going to be people in that church, and, as furious as I was, I wasn't willing to rush in barefaced. Aside from the fact that he'd have my head if I did, I rather enjoyed the anonymity that a colored wig or a pair of glasses lent me when I _wasn't_ playing Harley Quinn. Give these churchgoers a clear look at my face, and my advantage shrank.

I'd taken to keeping makeup in the center console of most of our vehicles, and the van was no exception. I dug out the black and white greasepaints and my dried-blood-red lipstick and went to work, painting on a haphazard facsimile of my usual "showtime" makeup. A quick glance in the mirror when I was done revealed that the job was crude, but certainly passable—no one could mistake it for anything but my signature.

The ski cap had been left behind in Admiral Docks where I'd discarded it at the beginning of the night, and using the hair ties I kept around my wrists in case of situations just like this one, I divided my hair into messy pigtails. I was in jeans and a tank instead of the usual getup, but they were black and red, respectively, and the combat boots and the shining pink diamond scars on my bared arms combined with my makeup and my mere presence ensured that there could be no mistake as to my identity. Window dressing, to be sure, but showmanship was important to our little outfit, and I wasn't going to drop the ball just because I was about to have a very public fight with my shitty, murderous, _lying, __**no-good**_ boyfriend. On the contrary—the war paint felt appropriate.

I abandoned the van beside a fire hydrant, since it wasn't as if we could keep it for much longer anyway, and stalked across the street. This area of town, perhaps because it was favored by the faithful, was often a target of jeering vandalism—a fact that benefited me at the moment, since the streetlamps were destroyed and there weren't any casual pedestrians to jam up my plan. I was sure that the Joker had taken this into account when he'd planned this little outing, as recognizable as his face was. Too bad I was planning to throw a wrench into his night, but I figured that the least I could do was pay him back for the experience I'd just had.

I threw open the doors and strode into the foyer. Two clowns were standing guard, holding AK-47s that they leveled at me the second I entered, but I didn't even check my stride, and they lifted the guns again immediately, recognizing the paint, the pigtails. I blew right through the foyer, pushed into the sanctuary, and bellowed:

"_**JOKER!**_"

The heavy doors fell closed behind me with a heavy thud that echoed through the quiet sanctuary. The figure at the very end of the room, standing at the pulpit with his arms outstretched and his back to me, slowly lowered his arms and turned around.

Ladies and gentlemen, the aforementioned shitty, murderous, lying, no-good boyfriend.

He hadn't filled me in on the details of what _he _would be doing that evening, but apparently, it involved dressing in complete priest vestments to go with his painted face, up to and including a clerical collar. In other circumstances, I might have been thrilled to see the getup, but as it was, I was far too enraged and wounded to think anything but: _that __**lying**__ son of a bitch._

I started down the aisle, gathering information with several brief glances as I went. Clowns lining the sanctuary, stationed beside towering stained glass windows that might prove a weak point if they were interrupted by law enforcement. People huddled in the pews—about twenty of them altogether, all in the center as if they'd been herded out of their usual places, Midnight Mass-goers who had chosen this unfortunate night to attend. I could only imagine what they were thinking at my interruption. There was a pile of cell phones in front of the pulpit platform, smashed to bits, ensuring that none of the Joker's toys ended the game early.

I stomped past these and mounted the steps to the platform, and as I headed up to face him, he finally spoke up, blinking at me with an expression of owlish curiosity: "Um, can I _help_ you?" He sounded completely guileless, as if he really had no clue why I was interrupting him. Innocent.

_Innocent, my ass._

I stalked right up to him, coming to a stop a mere foot away. The Joker was a full eight inches taller than my not-_that_-short 5'5", but we got into spats so often and I was so mad that I didn't even stop to consider that the top of my head didn't even reach his shoulder before confronting him. "Yeah, you can help me," I spat, and jabbed him directly in the chest with my index finger. "You can tell me what the _hell _is wrong with you!"

"What, _today_?" he quipped instantly. He never could resist a smarmy comeback, but as I met his eyes, I didn't see levity there. I saw the light that only came out before someone was about to get hurt, the vicious little pinprick of white in the center of the pupils and irises that looked pitch black in the dim light.

I might have faltered then, but one of the clowns chose that moment to speak up, distracting us momentarily from each other: "What's wrong, Harley?"

We turned our heads in unison to look at him, and after a moment, I glanced back to see the Joker narrowing his eyes almost infinitesimally at me—possibly warning me to sit down and shut up. I disregarded that warning, turning to face the clown, who was guarding the window closest to us. I recognized his voice: he was a fairly new recruit, but one that I got along with well enough.

"You know, Westy, I'm glad you asked!" I said, pitching my voice to carry. "I assume you and the rest of the fellas know that the boss here sent us on a little _mission_ tonight?" I half-turned again, figuring that the Joker had been out of my line of sight for long enough but making it clear through body language that I was still addressing the henchmen and the crowd of hostages in the pews, sharing with them. "Yeah, we were supposed to plant a bomb in a warehouse, drive safely away, and detonate it. Only there was a bomb already there, wasn't there, J?" I asked, my voice getting increasingly sarcastically saccharine. "And it was set to go off, oh, right about the time we were supposed to be planting _our _explosives. Wonder how _that _happened?"

The Joker, tired of my recital, flung a gloved hand out and gripped my elbow with bony fingers, drawing me off-balance almost into his chest. "_Harley,_" he growled, in a tone that—I couldn't quite believe it—sounded genuinely playful, "this sounds like, uhhh—a _private _issue, huh? Lucky for you…" and here, he reached up pointedly with his other hand, tapping at the collar around his throat—"There's, ahh, a _confessional _right over there, and _I'm _game to listen to a few… _sins_. Wanna step_ into _it for a few minutes?"

I caught myself gaping at him. _He_ certainly was in a mood—I expected annoyance, some violent response to my interruption of his scheme, but definitely not _flirtation. _Sure, he'd been known to tease and show affection on jobs, especially when there were witnesses to freak out and disturb… and come to think of it, inviting me to defile a confessional in front of apparently devout churchgoers definitely fit under the category of "freak out and disturb," but I wasn't buying it. The Joker didn't like when I threw his plans off-balance, and I was being particularly unruly tonight, challenging him in front of the _hostages. _

Plus, he still had that look in his eye. The look that said _I'm about to draw blood_. So I smiled as disarmingly as possible, yanked my elbow out of his hand, and trotted a couple of steps backwards. "No, thanks!" I chirped. "Because, honestly, with the night I've had—" And here I gave a brief, _oh-isn't-it-just-the-funniest-thing _chuckle—"I really have no guarantee that I'll come out of there alive, do I?"

I met his eyes again, and as he stared thoughtfully and I stared back, I let the fake smile drop in favor of the expression I really wanted to wear—eyes narrowed, lips turned down, forehead furrowed in anger. I was pissed off, and at this point, I wanted everyone to know.

It was working, at any rate. Westy coughed awkwardly from the window a few feet behind me, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the huddle of hostages shifting uneasily, tasting the tense atmosphere in the sanctuary and clearly wondering if my interruption would play out better for them or worse in the long run.

_Hostages, that reminds me_—but before I could ask irritably what he was even _doing _here tonight, anyway, he gave a little head-shake, like a kid trying to throw off his drowsiness. All of a sudden, his face changed—he blinked several times, eyebrows knitting to crease the painted skin between them, and his lips puckered slightly as he took a step towards me. "Oh, but _Harley_," he crooned, and underneath the layer of mocking that always accompanied his words, I thought I could distinguish just a touch of concern. I stayed put, keeping a close eye on him as he reached out for my hands. "_Har_ley, you're _bleeding_."

The blast had been far enough away that I hadn't been hit with any serious shrapnel, but I'd still gotten hit with some sharp gravel that cut into my bare arms, a couple of pieces finding their way to my forehead and hairline. I'd noticed drops of blood gathering on the latter cuts as I was putting on my makeup, but at the time, I was too pissed off and too ready to rush inside to do anything about them. I'd forgotten again until just then.

The Joker's hands closed around mine, the long fingers strong and firm beneath his rubbery gloves. "Yeah," I said, still jabbing at him, still looking for the snapping, vicious reaction I expected, "that's what happens when you get _blasted with shrapnel_."

"Oh, you're tellin' _me,_" he said, drawing me backwards towards the spotlight that was focused on the podium. I followed, starting to feel confused. It wasn't like him to refrain from expressing his displeasure with me, even—_especially_—in public. I'd violated Rule Number One: _don't fuck up __or__ around on the job, _and this violation was completely intentional. Every time I'd so much as _accidentally _made a mistake on a job, I'd paid for it dearly, and immediately. So where was his anger now?

This was uncharted territory, and I continued to feel lost as we reached the area just behind the podium where the light was better. He made casual clucking sounds with his tongue as he gave my riddled arms a quick examination, then his eyes flicked up to the cuts along my hairline and he lifted his hand to rub a thumb with his usual briskness against one of them, making me flinch. "Yeaah, you _really_ got chewed up," he drawled, sliding the hand down to cup my cheek instead, meeting my eyes.

That savage light was gone. All I read was his usual malevolent cheer—neutral territory for him. He continued, nodding slightly as he spoke as if to encourage me to _play along_ and _agree_ with him: "But, ya see, Harl—" he broke off, clicking his tongue ruefully in his cheek and casting a quick squint towards the hostages—"I'm… _kinda _in the middle of something, here. So maybe… wait _quietly _until Daddy's finished working. Then—maybe we can talk about this—what was it, _bomb_? Yeah—the bomb that threw you off-course."

I stared at him, completely bewildered. Not only was it not like him to deal with me so gently when I screwed around in public, but it _definitely _wasn't like him not to own up brazenly to his efforts to trick, trap, or harm me. For the first time, a sliver of doubt popped into my mind: _what if it wasn't actually him who set the bomb up? What if Maroni found out about the attack on the warehouse and decided to teach _**_us_**_ a lesson first?_

Stranger things had happened. Slowly, I reached up to grasp his hand with mine.

Right before my fingers touched his glove, I saw it—the microscopic change in expression, that ugly look resurfacing once again in his eyes. Before I could pull away, his fingers tightened in the roots of my hair, and all at once—_**BANG**_—he'd smashed my forehead directly against the wooden pulpit.

The hit wasn't a glancing one, either. My knees turned to butter, and as they folded beneath me, he let go of my hair, letting me drop to the platform in a graceless heap. Releasing a breathy groan of pain, I managed to turn my head just enough to keep an eye on him, but he seemed to have completely forgotten about me now that I'd been dealt with, stepping over me like I was little more than a sack of dirty laundry and addressing the hostages—_"Now, then_"—as if nothing had happened at all.

The casual dismissal was the last straw. He'd attempted to kill me, he'd manipulated me into entertaining the idea that _it might not actually have been him,_ he'd bashed my forehead open on the podium… but for him to just act like I was another problem dealt with, another mess left behind for his henchmen to clean up—that was just too much.

I felt my blood boiling, but I forced myself to hold off for a moment as I tried to blink the stars away from my vision. I had no intention of struggling upright only to stumble dizzily right off the stage. I clenched my toes, my fists, ensuring that I still had a decent amount of muscle control, and I gritted my teeth as the explosions of light finally retreated from the center of my vision to the edges before finally disappearing altogether.

_Now. About that no-good son of a bitch._

I reeled myself upright. The Joker's back was confidently to me as he addressed the hostages with some sarcastically earnest bullshit about them being _God's chosen, _some tidbit of torment I might have appreciated if I'd been feeling a little more friendly towards him, and I cracked a vicious smile, tasting blood and knowing that I must have bitten my tongue, that the red must be streaking my teeth. _That's right, go on pretending I'm done with. It'll cost you._

Quietly, I got to my knees, then slowly rose to my feet. A henchman further down the aisle cleared his throat, but he didn't dare interrupt the Joker while he was in showman mode (probably a smart idea, actually). I crept silently a little closer, ignoring the dizziness and the heavy throbbing pain in my head that signaled a concussion—this wouldn't be the first time I'd powered through one. I came within three feet of his turned back.

Then, I launched myself at him.

I'd have given anything to have seen his face when I landed on his back, but I would have to settle for the startled rush of air as it was knocked out of him, signifying the cutoff of his monologue. My jump was nothing to sneeze at—I'd had quite a bit of practice at hand-to-hand combat to strengthen me by that point, and I was a gymnast besides—but the Joker was almost impossible to knock down (I'd seen him withstand explosions that knocked everyone around him to the ground as if they were nothing but particularly explosive sneezes), so as it was, I forewent trying to tackle him around his waist and instead landed on his shoulders. The impact forced him to stumble forward a few feet, but he stayed mostly upright.

Before he could recover, I got my legs around his waist and one arm around his neck, clinging to him like a tree frog. With my free hand, I drilled several punches directly to the back of his skull, hissing at him with every blow: "_Take… that… you… crooked… bastard!_"

A low, primal growling sound was the only warning I got before his arms shot up, hands reaching behind his head, closing around my neck. I let out a startled yelp, jerking back, but his grip was tight despite the awkward angle, and he bowed over, holding me tight by the throat just beneath the jawline and _yanking._

I could probably have kept my legs locked around him and just let him tug fruitlessly away at my head, but my survival instinct told me that probably wasn't the best option. I loosened my grip and let him fling me off of his back and to the floor.

I knew as I landed that I'd made a mistake. Now, he had the indisputable position of power: he was standing and I was down on the ground. My only hope was to scramble upright and away from him, to recover before he could reach me, and I made a valiant effort, but I was only halfway up before he planted the toe of his boot somewhere in the right side of my ribcage.

The pain lanced like lightning throughout my torso, and I shrieked, the force propelling me onto my back—but that was an even worse position than being on my stomach, and I flipped to my stomach again, trying to get my arms and legs under me so I could scramble away to some semblance of safety.

I knew it was futile even before I felt one hand clutching at the back of my shirt, the other gripping my hair again. I recognized the grip and managed to get halfway up before he _yanked, _painfully pulling me the rest of the way to my feet.

We were facing the stained glass window that Westy was guarding, though he'd wisely taken a step or two away from the brawling clowns. I felt cold horror start to pool in my chest as the hand in my hair slipped down, knotting itself in the back beltline of my pants instead. "J, _don't_—!" I tried to plead.

It was the most I managed to get out before he lifted me literally off of my feet and flung me bodily through the window.

It seems cliché to say that _time slowed down _or anything like that. Rather, it was more like I was hyperaware of every little detail, even if I was powerless to change them—I remembered the tinkle of glass pieces clinking into each other on their way down the ten or so feet to the ground, the slick shine of the damp patch of asphalt I was heading toward, and, most of all, the way my right hand looked, stretched out in front of me slightly ahead of the left to try to break my fall.

Then: collision.

White hot pain shot up my right arm, so sharp and immediate that I didn't even notice the way the asphalt scraped my face and shoulder or how the broken glass that had accompanied me outside punctured my shirt and the skin of my arms. I managed with difficulty to roll myself onto my back, feeling the need to cradle my wrist, to get it out from underneath me. With difficulty—I had trouble even moving the arm, it felt limp and crippled at my side—I dragged it up beneath my chest, clasping it with my mildly scraped left hand. The touch sent a fresh jolt of pain shooting up from the wrist, and I cried out in pain, unable to hold it back.

I heard shoes thump onto the asphalt nearby. I managed to drag my attention away from the arm, looking with dread over at the shoes' owner—the Joker had jumped out of the window to the road and was strolling over to join me, looking casually around to check out the surrounding streets. Vaguely, I registered the sound of sirens, but was in too much pain to be afraid. I just kept my eyes on the Joker's face, fearful and uncertain, waiting to see what he'd do.

He came to a stop just beside me. He still hadn't looked at me, and he took his time, even glancing over his shoulder at the gaping hole in the side of the church before finally lowering his eyes and fixing them on my face.

"Okay, J," I whispered hoarsely. "You win." Despite the pain, I summoned a wry, breathless chuckle, reflecting that I should have foreseen this outcome the very moment I decided to get answers from Toots.

He nodded absently, not necessarily agreeing, just signaling that my words had been heard. He glanced around again as he pulled a glove off with his teeth, seemed to notice that the sirens were growing closer, and then, as clowns came spilling out of the broken window and the doors of the church, he stooped down beside me. I cringed, worried that he was going to try to touch my injured wrist, or worse, take the beating even further, but he just reached up to my face with his freshly bared hand.

I couldn't even manage to hate myself for leaning into the touch.

He stroked my bloodied face with his usual just-shy-of-bruising 'tender' touch, irritating the fresh wounds there and doubtless tracing paths of blood down my cheek, but I didn't flinch, just keeping my eyes on him, willing him to meet my gaze, to give me some further indication that we were all right.

Finally, he did. The eye contact was accompanied by a quick, toothy grin, the one he used when he was being "charming," and the fingers against my face gripped my cheek, pinching the skin painfully. "Send me a postcard, doll."

Then he was standing up, turning away from me, striding towards the street where the van they'd brought was parked. He got a few paces away before it registered.

"J?" I called, hating how weak and desperate I sounded but unwilling to just keep quiet and let him go. "J, _don't_—"

And _that _was where I discovered I couldn't draw enough breath to keep going. With everything I'd been through that night, my body had just had enough, and I found that I couldn't even keep my head up. I dropped it to the pavement, still following the Joker's movements with my eyes. I could barely find enough breath to cry, but somehow I did, releasing deep, suffocating sobs as I watched him climb into the van without a glance back, watched the van screech away from the curb, listened as the sound of its engine faded.

Not two minutes later, the sirens closed in on me.

* * *

I opened my eyes to find that I was crying again, though unlike last night, the tears didn't threaten to choke me—they were simply slipping steadily down my damp face and had clearly been doing so for a while.

I'd been taken to the ER and diagnosed with severely bruised ribs, a distal radius fracture of the right wrist, a bad concussion, and countless lacerations, scrapes, and bruises all over my upper body. In a way, the time spent handcuffed to the hospital bed was the worst. Not only was I coming to terms with the fact that I had been abandoned to the police by the person I cared most about in the world, but I had to weather pitying look after pitying look from the female nurses, one of whom even had the gall to give me literature on leaving and recovering from abusive relationships. These were citizens of Gotham City, people who should be _terrified _of me and the man I represented, but here they were, seeing me at my weakest and lowest. It was humiliating.

It was almost a relief, then, when I was deemed well enough to be released from the hospital and was officially arrested. From that point on, it was a flurry of police station interrogation rooms (where I incidentally developed my rule about not speaking of the Joker), games of good cop bad cop, threats, unwarranted manhandling, camera flashbulbs, hearings… I was numb to it all. I was heartbroken, injured—I just didn't care.

It wasn't until I landed in Arkham that my mood, never bad for long, started to improve. Oh, I was still miserable, still aching and weak and stuck in the hellhole where I'd used to work, completely divorced from the absolute freedom to which I'd grown accustomed_. _But by that point, most of my sadness and resentment had disappeared. I had gained some perspective of the whole situation.

Payback for my stunt in February was inevitable. I'd known it at the time, and I'd handcuffed him to that bed with eyes wide open—I'd been perfectly willing to accept the consequences if it meant he'd recover from his illness. Just because those consequences caught me by surprise when they finally came around didn't mean I hadn't agreed to take them when they did.

I'd made myself another promise back in February. I'd promised myself that no matter what the Joker did, I was going to stick with him, a promise born of the skepticism he'd expressed to me while hallucinating, his doubt that I'd stay with him through thick and thin.

There was no way he was just going to let me rot in Arkham. He'd be too eager to test his theory, the theory that I'd leave him as soon as things got a little tough. He'd want to prove himself right, that the second he sprung me from this place, I would turn tail and flee the city, leaving him well behind.

I was ready to prove him wrong.

I still loved him, after all. Our relationship was practically _built _on our ups and downs, the cuts and bruises, even the concussions and knife wounds—I was hardly going to bow out just because of a broken wrist, especially given the circumstances. Severe injuries were in the job description. No, I was over the whole ordeal and I missed him dearly, was ready to return home.

He was coming to get me. I knew it.

All I had to do was wait.

* * *

**A/N** - Oh, Harley, will you ever learn?

This is actually coming to you guys later than I wanted- I'd hoped to update by Friday, but as always, life wriggled in- or more specifically, family, friends, and a pair of huge dogs who require lots of attention. It's been a busy weekend. Hopefully the Joker's presence (even via flashback) makes up for it. For the record- Harley and J just having it out in a church in front of hostages was quite possibly the very first image I got when I was making plans for this sequel.

Oh, a clarifying note- a few of you asked, so I figured I'd better say clearly that Joan Leland is not my creation: she's a canon character from the Animated Series and she's generally considered a pretty decent doctor, all things considered. She's a tough cookie and pretty good for Harley.

Song's on the blog; it's a particular favorite (Tom Waits and the Joker fit REALLY well together) and quite possibly the Joker's anthem, at least when it comes to Harley, so enjoy that. Oh, and to the guest who compared Harley to Columbia from RHPS- you're TOTALLY right and I've always been really fond of Columbia as well; she's the Harley Quinn of the Rocky Horror Picture Show for sure.

We're wrapping up the time at Arkham. It won't be long before J and Harley are back together at last; thanks to everyone for being so lovely and patient and saying such wonderful things in your reviews! You're all marvelous.


	6. keep on your mean side

**Chapter Five**

**keep on your mean side**

_Don't you leave me here  
Don't you leave me here  
Get my name stitched on your lips so you won't get hitched._

**-The Kills, **_**Hitched**_

It had been a shitty week.

Not that Arkham was known for producing _non_-shitty weeks, but even by Arkham Asylum standards, my week had been one of the worst I'd experienced since my incarceration.

It started with Jonathan.

It happened the very day I'd attacked him with the cafeteria tray, though I didn't find out about it until the next morning. Apparently, while he was in the infirmary being checked out for any lasting injuries from my attack, he'd produced a shiv from somewhere on his person and gone after the infirmary nurse.

In this case, 'gone after' meant that he had held her at knifepoint until she'd surrendered her keys and her scrubs, then, showing a truly inspired amount of innovation, he tied her to one of the infirmary cots with ace bandages, binding her mouth with yet another one. He ditched his glasses, put on her scrubs, and waltzed right out of Arkham Asylum. He'd chosen his time well, doubtless informed by his time as director—lunch was busy, requiring all the extra orderlies to be on the floor in the cafeteria keeping an eye on the inmates, and the fact that it was also a shift change ensured that security would be sparse. He used her keycard to access the staff garage, took her car, and used it to ram the exit gate. The police had been called, but by that point, it was too late—all Jonathan needed to do was get out of those walls and get a good head start, and he'd done both.

None of this was explicitly told to me, of course. It wasn't exactly staff policy to inform the inmates of another inmate's escape—wouldn't do to put any untoward ideas in our heads, after all. However, Arkham staff was the absolute _worst _for gossip—almost as bad as J's henchmen—and I managed to garner the majority of the details during art therapy. All I had to do was position my canvas near the two orderlies who were whispering to each other and pretend to focus completely on the shitty house I was painting while actually keeping my ears perked.

It was by doing this that I was able to pick up on an interesting detail about Crane's little escape, one that I certainly wasn't supposed to hear: once he'd finished up in the infirmary and was heading out the door, he paused, glanced back at the helpless nurse, and casually said, "Oh, and you should tell Harley _thank you _for helping me out. She played her part _perfectly._"

When I heard that, I was livid. It was all I could do not to react visibly—there wasn't much I could do about the color that I felt rising in my cheeks, but I was otherwise careful not to let on that I'd heard. My painting suffered that day, though. What had started out as a halfway-passable house ended up being an angry smear of brownish-black on my canvas. Dr. Mori's worried looks multiplied.

_The nerve of that little pipsqueak! _Suddenly, his constant attention over the past couple of weeks made sense—he'd been carefully goading me, finding my pressure points and figuring out exactly what to say and when to say it so he'd get sent to the infirmary exactly when he wanted to. Hell, the least he could have done was to take me with him, and he didn't even do _that._

Not only that, but his throwaway comment to the nurse saddled me with an uncomfortable amount of suspicion. I was still restricted from communal areas and therefore spent the majority of time in my cell, but every time I _did _leave, I was the focus of what felt like every backup orderly's scrutiny. Leave it to Jonathan to stir the pot right before he left, convincing everybody that I'd intentionally helped him escape. It left me wishing I'd fought to beat him up a little more. Okay, a _lot _more.

Dr. Leland noticed my twitchy annoyance later on that day during our first "official" session and commented on it, but aside from protesting my innocence in the matter, I declined to go into further detail and she didn't push me. Our meeting was very light, and I got the distinct sense that she was holding off on the stronger stuff until we'd gotten better acquainted, until she'd forged a bond of sorts with me. That was fine by me—the longer it took her to start pushing for some real information, the longer I could pretend I was willing to work with her, which would hopefully keep Wilson off my back.

Only it didn't.

The next day, a Friday, I was minding my own business, alone in my cell, when the door unlocked and opened to admit my orderly. "Come on, Miss Quinzel, let's go."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. "Go where?"

He gave me a warning look. "You _know_ you've got regular sessions Friday afternoons."

_David. _I felt a stab of annoyance. "Yeah," I said, "but I finally committed to a therapist. Dr. Leland, remember? You've taken me to my sessions. I'm not supposed to get passed around anymore; she's my doctor now."

He was shaking his head. "Dr. Wilson is the director, Miss Quinzel, and he says weekly sessions with him are supposed to continue. Now, you take it up with him if you have a problem with it—I'm just doing my job."

"Oh, I _will_ take it up with him," I muttered, striding past him out of the cell door and setting a quick pace for the elevator. He caught up easily, fixing me with a warning look.

"Miss Quinzel, you're not planning on starting any trouble, are you?"

"Who, me?" I flashed him a grin, which, given my state of mind, probably came across as more predatory than reassuring. "Butter wouldn't melt."

"Sure it wouldn't," he grumbled as we got into the elevator and started our descent.

Neither of us seemed very interested in pursuing the topic, and so it was in silence that he escorted me to the usual room, put me inside, and cuffed me. I was waiting for a full five minutes before David showed up, and in that time managed to grow quite annoyed with my ex-friend.

Naturally, I started in on him as soon as he came in the door. "What the hell is this, David? I'm working with Joan Leland now."

"Good afternoon to you, too, Harley," he said pointedly, crossing the room and taking the seat across from me, dropping his files to the table. "Yes, I heard that you'd showed a willingness to work with Dr. Leland. I'm glad. I thought you might like her."

I scoffed, turning my head and staring at the wall to my left so I wouldn't have to look at him, arms folded so tightly beneath my chest that I imagined I could feel ghost pains from my long-healed ribcage. "I thought the _point _of all those sessions with different therapists was to find one that I wanted to actually _talk _to."

"It _was_," he said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

I glanced sharply back at him. "And that the point of these weekly sessions with _you _was to give me some stability until I found someone else more permanent."

"Well," he said carefully, "yes, but… I'm not willing to jump the gun and let your structure collapse until I feel certain that you and Joan will work out. I intend to keep meeting with you weekly until I see signs that Joan really _is _the right doctor for you."

"What, she isn't and you are?" I asked, my tone aggressively sarcastic. He shook his head and dropped his eyes to the tabletop, but before he could begin to formulate any sort of elaboration, I leaned forward and lowered my voice, making it just a touch more threatening: "Do I need to remind you about what happened the last time an asylum director kept trying new doctors on the resident clown psycho _after_ it had become clear who the _right_ doctor was?"

His gaze shot up to meet mine, and he spoke before he could run his words through the "doctor" filter that made everything he said calm, careful, and inoffensive: "You _were not _the right doctor for him."

That gave me pause, and I sat thoughtfully back into my chair. "No. No, I suppose not." _Because he wasn't sick and he didn't __need__ a doctor. He didn't __**need**__ anyone, but he certainly got someone—the only someone in this entire asylum who had a shot at halfway-understanding him. _I kept those thoughts to myself.

Wilson, having been given a few seconds to recover himself, cleared his throat and reached out to flip open the file in front of him. "I'd like to discuss Jonathan Crane."

I'd resumed staring at the wall to my left, arms petulantly folded again, and at Wilson's request, I raised my eyebrows and shook my head without letting my gaze waver. "I don't want to talk about him."

"I know how gossip is in this institution. I'd be lucky if a single patient hadn't heard about his escape—what I'm interested in discussing is the fact that he indicated that you assisted him in his breakout."

"Please," I growled. "Even _you're_ not gullible enough to believe I'm altruistic enough to help him escape without ensuring that I got out of this dump myself at the same time."

Wilson didn't say anything for a moment, possibly hoping that if he let the silence linger, then I might look at him. Stoically, I started counting the flecks of… something on the wall. The whole thing was spattered down with spots that were that weird color between brown, green, and yellow. _Snot or vomit?_

Wilson caved first, of course—he never could just let the silence lie. Quietly, even gently, he said, "The Harley I knew wouldn't have minded putting a friend first if she felt like he needed her help."

I sighed and permitted myself an eyeroll behind briefly-closed lids. If I cared to, I could explain to him that a.) Jonathan was _not_ my friend, especially not _now, _and b.) the Harley _he _knew was long dead and gone, so she wasn't exactly a good frame of reference. I didn't want to get into that, though, had no desire to give him a hand in prying my skull open. Instead, I said, "I don't want to talk about this."

"Why does this topic make you uncomfortable?"

_Idiot. Reaching for some evidence that I'm still the girl he knew. _Finally, I looked at him, and by that point, I was glaring. "_No! _I don't want to talk about this, David, and I'll tell you something else, I don't want to meet with you anymore, either."

"Harley—"

I'd gotten going, though, and this was a tantrum long in the making. Usually, I kept my protests to sullen snippiness, unwilling to make too large a ripple in the oppressive space of the asylum, but today I couldn't seem to contain myself—and I knew exactly why. It was because of the shit he pulled at the end of last week's session, and I intended to tell him so.

"I mean," I said, cutting him off and giving him a look of utter scorn, "whatwere you even _doing_ last week, anyway? Leaving me locked away in the dark? Playing recordings of _his _voice? What the fuck kind of sick game are you _playing_, David, and what makes you think that bullshit's going to do anything, anyway?"

Wilson went very still, and as I glared at him, he met my eyes. "You say you heard his voice in the dark?"

_Oh, no you don't. _The whole thing, up to his body language and the way he was looking at me, was way too calculated. I tilted my head back and laughed angrily. "Oh, don't you _dare _give me that."

"Harley, if you're having auditory hallucinations—"

"Auditory hallucinations, my ass! I recognized what I _heard_, David; it was spliced recordings from our old sessions—all flash, no substance." He kept staring at me, kept up the act. I glared at him again. "You're telling me you had no idea that I was left alone in the dark after you left last week? That _someone_ piped in doctored recordings of his voice for me to listen to while I sat in here unable to escape them?"

Wilson had somehow found a pen and was scribbling on his clipboard, though he didn't look down at the paper, staring hard at me instead. "What did he say, Harley?"

_Unbelievable. _I shook my head at him, feeling the incredulous expression take over my face. "Are you _serious_? You're going to keep this up?"

"Harley…" He paused and set his pen down, lacing his hands together in front of him, a gesture I recognized as indicating that he was about to say something people might not want to hear. "I didn't do that."

I stared back at him, and for a moment, I found myself considering the possibility that perhaps he was telling the truth—but _no,_ I told myself violently, _for someone else to do it they'd have to know that he was planning to leave early and that I'd be left alone for however long, and I __**know**__ it wasn't me—auditory hallucinations don't just show up without warning._

"You know what?" I asked lowly, dropping my eyes to the table and forming my words very carefully. "I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed because this kind of trickery does _nothing_ to actually heal people, which means you've graduating from trying to _help_ me—a misguided effort to begin with, but at least well-intentioned—to trying to _prove _that I'm crazy. It's no longer about the patient now, it's about your own ego… which, I suppose, is one of the drawbacks of becoming director. David, I'm disappointed. Mostly, though—"

I lifted my gaze from the table, making eye contact for a brief moment. "Mostly, I'm _pissed off._"

I lunged.

The quiet, calm speech had its effect, lulling Wilson into a sense of security (and superiority, I imagine—whether I was _actually _crazy or not, what was more damning than a mental patient accusing her doctor of being out to get her? He would look good in the session footage later, but I didn't really give a damn). As a result, he was taken completely off-guard by my attack, and when I came over the table at him, he was barely able to throw his arms up before I knocked him out of his chair, wrapping my hands around his neck on the way down.

I felt my blood hot in my veins as we landed hard on the floor, me half on top of him, and I swear, it _sang _as I tightened my fingers around his throat. I could feel myself smiling hard even as he grabbed at my face, scratched my cheek, because this was a _long _time coming, because I'd been _dying _to throttle Wilson ever since he walked in to my first session as a _patient _in Arkham with that false sympathy barely concealing the intolerable smugness he wore just beneath. The chance to show him the consequences of fucking with me would be worth any punishment they saw fit to dole out in response to the attack.

Of course, that was _before _the door opened, the orderly came bursting in, and I got jabbed hard with a needle even as my fingers were pried away from Wilson's neck.

Anti-psychotic sedatives. I genuinely despised them.

I spent the next twenty-four hours drifting, weakened and sleepy but just aware enough to register how helpless I was and to hate it. Once I _did _come out of it, I spent the next day throwing up—a pretty common reaction to a day spent sedated, which didn't help my feelings towards the drugs. Altogether, it took me roughly until Monday to completely get that shaky, exhausted, sick feeling out of my system.

I'd had better weekends.

No sooner was I released from the infirmary than I was returned to my cell, where, I was informed, I was to be confined alone until a resolution to my violent behavior of late was found. I was perfectly fine with that. The way things had gone lately, only bad things had happened whenever I left my cell, anyway, and although I was by nature a social creature, nothing even close to "socializing" could really happen inside of the suffocating walls of the Asylum.

Especially with Jonathan gone. Not for the first time, I cursed him for bailing and leaving me alone in this place.

Several days passed in a moody haze—I slept a lot, only really rousing myself to poke at my food. Finally, sometime mid-week, Dr. Leland came to my cell.

She brought a chair with her, and an orderly I didn't recognize stationed himself against the back wall, sending me sternly warning looks whenever I glanced over at him. Leland set the chair up opposite my bunk and had a seat.

"Good evening, Doctor Quinzel," she greeted me pleasantly, quite as if the meeting were taking place under normal circumstances.

I hadn't been aware it _was_ evening. Slowly, I brought my bare feet up on the bunk, leaning back against the wall and folding my legs Indian-style. "Dr. Leland," I greeted her warily.

"I'm aware these aren't usual circumstances, but given that Dr. Wilson doesn't want to lift the confinement order quite yet, I had to come to _you_. I hope you don't object."

At the mention of Wilson, I grinned a little. "No, I imagine he wouldn't want me roaming around the Asylum right now, would he? How does his throat look?"

"Dr. Quinzel, you know it was wrong to assault him." I pulled a mocking sad face, signifying my disappointment in her unwillingness to play long, but she went on: "Debates about violence aside, you're an intelligent woman—you know that such displays of a lack of self-control will not make you any friends. Out of self-interest alone, I would have expected you to refrain."

I shrugged. I wasn't about to let her know that I didn't mind being alone if it meant not having to hang out with anyone else in the Asylum, and I also had no intention of telling her that I didn't care what my doctors thought about me, because I wasn't going to be here forever.

Fortunately, she didn't wait around to see if her mini-lecture sunk in. She flipped some pages on the clipboard she carried and moved on. "Speaking of making friends, I'd like to talk to you about your friends today, if that's all right." She caught my warning glance and nodded reassuringly at me. "I won't press you to speak about anyone you don't wish to talk about. That said—I assume you know that we have visitors' hours one weekend every month?"

Slowly, I nodded. I didn't know where she was going with this, but neither was I particularly keen to find out.

"And, going by the date of your commitment, you've been here for… _three _of those visitor's weekends. I checked the logs, and as it appears, no one has come to see you." Her eyes flicked over the page, confirming, and then she looked over her clipboard at me. I didn't offer anything, so she prodded, gently: "Is there no one for you outside of this asylum?"

I chuckled wryly, debated not responding, but I met her eyes and thought _eh, what the hell. _She wasn't pressing me to talk about the Joker yet, and she _definitely _wasn't a David Wilson, trying to find and breathe life into the skeleton of a girl who no longer existed. The thought _did _cross my mind that she and Wilson were good-cop-bad-copping me, but given the nature of the questioning, I doubted it—and even if it was true, I found that I didn't care much.

Maybe being alone in my cell for so long was having more of an effect on me than I initially thought.

I rolled my neck from side to side, breaking eye contact as I told her "It's probably more accurate to say that there's no one for me _inside _of this asylum."

"I don't think that's true," she said softly. I shrugged, unwilling to argue the point, and she got right back on track. "So if there are people for you outside of these walls, why haven't they come to visit?"

I looked pointedly at her out of the corner of my eye for a moment, daring her to voice the logical conclusion on her own. When she didn't, I gave her a little bit of help. "Well, as you know, I run with a decidedly… _criminal _element. So, logically, the only people who would want to come see me are either _criminals_—in which case it would be suicide to come here—or they're friends that _aren't _criminals, in which case they'd hardly want to make any association with me public. Imagine—neighbors harassing them for daring to be friendly with _me, _cops showing up on their doorsteps any time I was in trouble or unaccounted for…"

_Or maybe they're supposed to be dead, have a new identity, and don't want to blow their cover on something like a prison visit. _I suddenly missed Pam.

I didn't mention her, though. I just shrugged and showed my hands. "There are any number of reasons my friends aren't here. I don't hold it against them."

Leland was quiet just long enough for me to sense that I wouldn't like what she was about to say, and then she asked, "And your father?"

The smile froze on my face. Leland, like any good therapist, didn't increase the pressure too much, but neither did she relieve it. "I checked your history. Your father is alive and well in Robinson County, just an hour away. I understand why it might be painful, but… do you think you might could venture forth a guess as to why he hasn't come to see his only living family member?"

There was a lump in my throat that I had to swallow past before I could speak, but it wasn't due to sadness. "I don't have to guess," I finally said, trying hard to keep my tone bland, trying not to let the bitterness I was feeling seep through. "He knows as well as anyone why I'm in here, and he's ashamed. He always was one for _conditional _love."

"You think that your father is ignoring you because of your criminal activities?"

"Again: I don't think, I _know._"

She watched me for a minute before jotting something briefly down on the notepad. "For you to be so certain of that… well, it indicates a history."

"Of him being withholding and cold and a _slavedriver_? Yeah, no, I'm definitely aware of that. I'm also aware of the _implications,_" I said pointedly, avoiding meeting her stare, "but I promise you, I had and _have _no interest in dating my father as some form of conflict resolution. My… current relationship status is unrelated."

Unlike ninety-nine percent of the therapists in the asylum, she didn't latch onto the "relationship status" part of that sentence, didn't try to get me to elaborate. Instead, she just looked at me and said, "You know what I'm going to say in response to that."

"Yes, I do," I sighed, "but trust me—I've had plenty of time to think about my issues with my father as they relate to my current life. The only effect they could realistically have had is that, lacking guidance from him, I sought it out elsewhere."

Leland watched me for another moment, then nodded smartly. "That's a very self-aware observation, Dr. Quinzel, and a good starting place as well. But not for today. Dr. Wilson told me I should keep things brief."

I blinked at her as she got up. "Wow. That _was _brief."

She turned concerned eyes on me. "I don't _have _to go if you feel like talking about this more."

"No, no," I hastened to say. I _definitely _did not want to talk about my father. "It's fine. Next time."

"Next time," she agreed, nodding. She paused, and as the orderly moved to unlock and open the door, she said, "In the interim, I'd like you to think about… your connections outside of this place. Aside from him. Er, the Joker, that is. I'd like to talk more about your friendships soon."

I nodded, playing along. "I'll… I'll do that."

She gave me a brief smile, then picked up her chair and left. The orderly followed, and I was alone again.

And depressed.

It was weird, but seeing Dr. Leland, talking to another human being for the first time in days, talking about my friends, however indirectly—it threw my feelings of isolation into sharp relief, and I felt lonelier than I had in a long while.

For the first time since I came into the asylum, I had a creeping feeling of doubt.

_Maybe he's not coming for me after all._

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I shook my head violently, as if I could expel it by force. _No! No, Harley, you can't doubt him like that. He's __**coming**__. He'll get you out._

I curled up on my bunk, over the covers, trying to feel reassured but feeling emptiness in the pit of my stomach despite myself. _Come on, Harley. This is the guy who infiltrated and blew up the MCU with about the amount of effort it took to lift a pinky finger. Getting into Arkham Asylum will be no problem for him._

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

_If that's the case, then why hasn't he come for me yet?_

I twisted again, turning angrily towards the wall—angry at myself, angry at my stupid weakness. Obviously, self-reassurance wasn't working. I found myself casting about instead for memories of him, memories that might help me pretend he wasn't so far away.

In moments, one was swimming through the ether towards me.

* * *

_It was mid-April, right in the midst of the honeymoon phase between me and J that would serve to lull me into a false sense of security by the date of the confrontation a month later. All that was in the future, though, and the Joker, the crew, and I were enjoying warmer weather, a new hideout, and…_

_The first bank robbery of the spring._

_Banks were suicide these days unless you had a good plan, but the Joker never seemed to have any shortage of them. This one had been going along without a hitch until Ace caught one of the tellers going for the silent alarm out of the corner of his eye. There was shouting, some bullets flew, and the teller dropped, along with a couple of the hostages that had been unfortunate enough to come into the bank that morning._

_The Joker barked at the guys to finish up, __**fast**__, and I hopped over to the group of hostages huddled together near where one of their number had dropped in the shooting. The victim was a woman, and as I leaned over her to get a better look, I saw what she was holding in her arms._

_Gently, I reached out and removed the pink bundle from her slack grip, delighted to feel movement and see that the spatter of red on the blanket belonged to the woman rather than the blanket's occupant. Smiling, I turned and called out to the Joker._

"_Look, J!" I pushed the blanket back to reveal a pink little face and tiny little fingers clutching at the edge. I made a cooing noise and offered my index finger to the infant, pleased when she latched on tight. "Look, it's a baby!"_

"_I can see it."_

_His wary tone made me look up to see him standing across the room, shoulders hunched slightly, making no move to approach and look. I frowned. "What's wrong?" I asked, taking a step towards him._

_He took a step back._

_I froze, looked at his face, looked down at the face of the baby I held, and then tried hard (and unsuccessfully) to hold back a grin. "You're __**scared**__ of her."_

"_I am __**not**__." It sounded like petulance to me, and I bit my knuckle trying not to laugh._

_Recovering quickly, I shifted the baby in my arms. I knew I shouldn't press the issue, but this was just too good—I couldn't resist. "Well then. You should hold her." I stretched the bundle out to him, and this time, more prepared, he didn't recoil. He did, however, shoot me a look of total disgust._

"_I don't __**want**__ to hold it. Put it __**down**__, Harley. __**Jee**__-suss."_

_This time I couldn't keep from laughing, albeit softly, as I reached down and chucked the baby gently under the chin. "It's okay, sweetie, he doesn't deal much with little ones," I told her, and then gently reached over and nestled her into her mother's arms again. I looked up to see that the men had finished up and that the Joker had turned away and was leaving, and I hurried along behind him, still grinning._

_I climbed into the passenger seat of the van and folded my arms, fully aware that a certain intolerable smugness was just rolling off of me. The Joker, in the driver's seat, must have sensed it, too, because he said, "I'm not __**afraid**__ of them. They're just __**useless**__. They cry and shit everywhere… and they're like, ah, little people, but they can't __**do**__ anything, and they have to be taken __**care**__ of."_

"_What," I said, still grinning hard, "your usual approach of 'if I don't want to eat it then I kill it' doesn't work with them?"_

_He rolled his eyes over to me. "Well, what's the __**point**__?" he asked plaintively. "It's like killin' animals. They don't understand what's going on, so it's not any __**fun**__. Er. Unless their __**parents**__ are watching, that is."_

_"What are you guys talking about?" asked Javier, popping his head forward._

_"I found a baby in the bank and J does __**not**__ like babies," I said, still having way too much fun with this new discovery._

"_Yeah, but who __**does**__ like babies?" Javier asked, snorting._

"_I happen to like them just fine," I informed him loftily, and I practically felt him freeze._

"_Yeah, this is not a conversation I want… to…" He trailed off and then vanished into the back of the van._

_Laughing, I shifted into the middle, turned around, and peered into the back. "Wuss! What, do you think J and I are about to have __**the talk **__right here and now in front of—"_

_Whatever I was about to say was lost as I heard a muffled curse beside me, and the Joker slamming suddenly on the brakes had me flying backwards into the dashboard—_

* * *

I was interrupted by the sound of the door unlocking and creaking open. I opened my eyes, and blearily, I rolled over—the tray with dinner had come an hour ago; I wasn't expecting anyone else till morning.

An orderly stood there, yet another unfamiliar face. His eyes flitted everywhere and he seemed twitchy, yet another indicator that something was up. Slowly, I sat up on my bunk.

His eyes found me. He opened his mouth, formed a few soundless syllables, and then, finally, blurted: "Harley Quinn?"

I felt my shoulders tense. No one called me that in here. I stared him in the eye, gave a short, decisive nod.

He stepped away from the doorframe. "Come with me. Quickly."

* * *

**A/N** -I know, I know, I'm a dick for leaving it there, but IN FAIRNESS, this chapter marks the conclusion of the first act of the story so for the sake of atmosphere and theme I NEEDED to cut it off there. Second act begins with the next chapter; maybe we'll find out what's actually going on in the city now. HEY, PRISON BREAK! YEAH!

More Joker in the next chapter, but all it's going to do is make y'all pissed at me, so- sorry in advance? (Speaking of him- I told a couple of you this, but I'm SO proud of all of you and your responses to finding out what happened to land Harley in Arkham. Lots of cussing, almost all of it directed towards the Joker. Good job, guys, he deserves it.)

Full disclosure, I have no idea if you can actually tie someone up with ace bandages. I imagine you can, at least temporarily, because those things are a bastard to try to tear, but eh. What a jerk that Jonathan guy is, huh?

Guest reviewer Panda- you said Nolan would be impressed and that made me kind of emotional, so I figured I should tell you that. What a compliment. Thank you!

Oh, and I know this chapter was several days late and I'm terribly sorry- it's been a super busy weekend; I've had guests or a heavy workload every single day. I'm going to try to get the next chapter out in a timely fashion for you guys. You've been so wonderfully patient. Thanks for reading and reviewing, everybody, I really appreciate it. :)


	7. joker, meet you on the other side

**Chapter Six**

**joker, meet you on the other side**

_You can't miss me—I'm still alive  
snake skin shoes; I'm pleading homicide  
come on and feel this: I'm still alive  
Joker, meet you on the other side_

_**- Kasabian, Vlad the Impaler**_

I was off of the bunk in a second, but as I stepped towards him, he held out a hand. "One second," he said, then leaned out of view, only to re-emerge with a gym bag, which he tossed at me. "Change first."

I raised an eyebrow, but hey, if he thought I'd look less suspicious walking through the mental asylum in anything other than the orange jumpsuit, I wasn't going to question it. Besides—I was sick of the jumpsuit.

"I'll keep watch," he muttered and stepped out of view, and I set about dumping the contents of the gym bag to the floor. It was jeans, motorcycle boots, and a plain black t-shirt, all in my size, though the jeans looked a little long. I didn't care. The sight of civilian clothes confirmed my suspicions—this was a prison break—and I'd stripped down and put on the new clothes in less than a minute. I was kicking my jumpsuit under the bunk when the orderly peeked around the door frame.

"Okay. Let's go."

He didn't have to tell me twice. Without wasting a second, I strode briskly from my shitty little cell into the hallway beyond. As I swept past the orderly, he turned and fell into step beside me, keeping pace and taking my elbow. I didn't ask questions, and he didn't offer an explanation. He just steered me down the empty hall, head turning to and fro as he checked, over and over again, to ensure that we were alone.

"Word of advice," I said, my voice just above a whisper, "don't look so guilty."

He ignored me, pushing me towards the door that led to the stairs. I went willingly.

We climbed down two flights, the orderly looking over the railing every three seconds to make sure that no one else was entering from one of the doors below, and I wondered vaguely who exactly this guy was and why he was doing this, but figured that now was _not _the time to ask.

"Here," he said once we reached the second floor exit. I paused and glanced uncertainly at him—because I knew exactly where this hallway went. It led to the employee garage, which also happened to be the way I infiltrated the asylum in November the year before in order to bust the Joker out. At the time, it had sported little more security than a magnetic keycard-activated lock and cameras in the halls. They'd have to be crazier than the inmates not to have bulked it up by now.

"What?" demanded the orderly, irritated at my hesitation. "Come _on!_"

"Okay," I said with a shrug, "you're the mastermind." With that, I pushed through the door.

I was definitely right—there was new security in the form of a metal detector and a tall, young security guard to oversee it, as well as to oversee the comings and goings of the asylum employees. When my escort didn't falter, I determined to keep up the pace and look confident. If he wasn't worried, then neither was I.

As we approached, the security guard glanced over his shoulder and then stepped towards us. I half expected my escort to pull out a knife, to gut him here and there, and I was surprised when the guard spoke in an angry half-whisper: "Where have you been? You were supposed to have her down here an hour ago!"

My eyebrows shot up. I glanced at the orderly, wanting to see how he'd respond.

Furiously, as it turned out. "One of the doctors had an unscheduled in-cell session with her! I almost walked in on them—what was I supposed to do, tell them I was interrupting them cause the psycho was scheduled for a breakout?"

"I object to that," I remarked brightly. They both ignored me.

"Look, whatever, man. Just get her out, and _fast_."

"I _am,_" hissed the orderly, taking my elbow again. He towed me towards the exit, and as we approached the security guard's station, I spotted the latter giving me the dirtiest look I'd seen since the first time I'd used the term "YOLO" in front of Jonathan (it was sarcasm, but the sarcasm lost some of its edge when I had to explain the meaning and subsequently weather the aforementioned dirty look).

I responded with a puzzled stare and a question. "What, did I kill your family, or something?"

I was unprepared when he actually made to lunge towards me, but before anything could develop, my orderly escort intervened, grabbing the guard by the shoulders and thrusting him back. "Easy, man! Come on. Let's just get this over with."

I was frowning as the orderly took my arm again, and I watched the guard until we were out in the garage and the door closed behind us, cutting him out of my view. _I haven't killed anybody's family. I mean, definitely not kids. Maybe… _I mentally went through the list of people I'd killed since I shot Senator Jordan last October. That list was short. I preferred to take things from people, to scare them—killing was generally reserved for the purpose of self-defense or to protect the Joker. I didn't typically get anything out of it. All told, I highly doubted that I'd killed any of the security guard's family members.

J might have, though. However, if that was the case, what was the guard doing busting me out?

_Unless he's not busting you out. Unless J shot his wife or his brother or something and he's conspiring with this guy to get a little eye-for-an-eye revenge._

It was this thought that was circling around in my head when we reached what was presumably the orderly's car and he opened the trunk. I looked at him, looked at the trunk, and then looked back again.

"You're kidding."

He heaved a quick, bitter sigh. "You got a better idea for getting you out of here under their noses?"

I narrowed my eyes. _When in doubt, just ask outright. They usually aren't expecting that. _Bluntly, I asked, "You planning to get me out of here so you can kill me?"

He stared. "What? _No._"

"Cause the security guard in there definitely didn't like me much."

"Well, he wouldn't," snapped the orderly.

"Uh-huh, and why is that?"

"Look, I—_we—_really don't have time to stand around discussing this. Let me just say: if I wanted to kill you, I could do it in the asylum. So could Gus."

"Gus is the security guard?" I asked, eyes still narrowed speculatively.

"_Yes._ Now would you please—just get in the trunk?"

I maintained my suspicion for another second or two before acknowledging to myself that he had a point—and even if he didn't, I didn't exactly have a lot of options. It was either go back in the asylum or go with him and risk that he might have a grudge, and really, even if he _was _planning to try to kill me, after three months in that hellhole, I was willing to take my chances.

I climbed in the trunk. He closed it.

"Spacious," I muttered sarcastically to myself, then sat quiet and listened.

I felt the car shift as he got in, heard his door close. The engine turned over, and then we were moving—slowly, moving along for a minute or two, and then we stopped. I heard faint voices, one of them belonging to the orderly, the other unfamiliar, neither of which I could make out. _Front exit security. _I held my breath. If the orderly had a bad reputation, if he seemed even slightly distracted, they might search his car, especially after the breakouts the asylum had dealt with in the last year.

The voices hummed for a full minute, and then we started moving forward, and I breathed, then fought laughter at the understanding that for the first time in months, I was outside of the asylum walls. "Of course, at least the cell was bigger than a car trunk, but I guess I can't complain," I said softly to myself, feeling giddy.

From that point on, all I could do was wait, and I didn't have to do that for long. We were driving for maybe five minutes before the car stopped and the engine was turned off. Another minute, and the orderly was opening the trunk and reaching for me. I was only too glad to climb out, noting as I did that he didn't hold any weapons that I could see. We were in what looked like an industrial lot, torn barbed wire in the peripherals, but judging by the lack of lights in the surrounding buildings and the cracked state of the asphalt, business had been suspended for a while.

Then, I was so distracted by the sight of the sky that I couldn't give two shits where we were or whether my liberator actually wanted to kill me.

Yeah, it was a city sky, and it was a _Gotham City _sky at that, which meant that lights from the concentration of buildings reflected off of the considerable smog, obscuring the stars and dyeing the whole expanse a sort of dark red-brown instead of black or blue, but it was a sky I'd fallen in love with once I'd become part of the nightlife last winter, and I wouldn't trade it for all the country skies in the world. The sight of Gotham's polluted sky, more than anything, drove the point home: _I'm out._

The orderly pulled me back to earth, grabbing my arm again. "Here," he said, gesturing past the car. "This way."

I glanced in the direction he'd indicated and saw a waiting van. Leaning against the side of the van was a solo figure—unfamiliar, hood up, hands in his front pockets. The orderly walked me to the front of his car and stopped, calling across the ten-foot space between us and the strangers. "She's here. You have them?"

The stranger let his hood fall back—and I felt a grin split my face when I saw the clown mask. _I knew it. _He appeared to look at me, then nodded, reaching behind him to bang twice on the wall of the van.

The back doors opened and yielded two more clowns, each one dragging a ziptied, duct-taped woman behind him. I could feel the orderly's hand trembling on my arm at the sight of them, and it clicked into place.

_Of course. Abduct family members of asylum workers with access to the cells and exits. Say they're doomed if you don't spring who we say. Anyone worth a damn won't care if he's caught on camera or implicated after the fact; all he'll want is to get his family back safe. _I felt my smile widen as I realized that we had a potentially permanent get out of jail free card here, and then I was being pushed forward by the orderly and realized that the clowns had sent the women, still tied, over towards us. It was clear that it was a sort of meet-in-the-middle situation, and I was only too happy to oblige, slipping out of the orderly's grip and walking steadily towards the van.

As I walked past the women, one of them shot me a filthy look. I didn't blame her. I'd probably be pretty pissed if I'd been kidnapped just to provide leverage. I put it out of my mind and was practically skipping by the time I reached the clowns at the van.

Before I could say anything, though, the hooded clown who'd been waiting for us called out lazily to the three civilians across the parking lot: "Remember, Rivera. You try to turn this around on us, we know where you live. We _all _know where you live." The voice was low, gravelly, and totally emotionless. I didn't recognize it.

The orderly didn't respond, other than shooting him a look of pure hatred. Then, he turned his attention to the former captives, helping them into the car and departing as quickly as possible.

The clown, his business with Rivera concluded, turned to me. "You want to hop in the back?" he asked, voice slightly muffled by his mask.

I froze momentarily at the thought of being shut up again so soon, but managed not to let it show, giving him a smile instead. "I'd _much _rather ride shotgun, if it's all the same to you. I've been cooped up for a while."

He shrugged, then pulled his mask off. I was right. I didn't recognize him. I'd remember this guy. Mainly because he was so… _old. _I mean, he wasn't exactly in need of a walker, but he was definitely older than our average henchman by about twenty years, was at least in his mid-fifties. His back was straight, though, and his blue eyes, though rather droopy, were clear—he looked like the sort of man who could handle himself, age notwithstanding. He didn't appear to notice me staring, shoving the mask in a back pocket and running his hand over his totally bald head. "You oughta tell that boyfriend of yours that these damn masks are a misery. Condensation starts gathering on the rubber, makes the whole thing feel like a rain forest. I'm George."

I took his offered hand gamely. "I'm Harley. And he's _your _boss, why don't you tell him?"

"I know exactly who you are," he said languidly, "which is why I said _you _should tell him. You're about ten times less likely to get _shot _for it."

I laughed and then stopped short, surprised at how good it felt to laugh from sheer amusement rather than anger or maliciousness for a change. Fighting a smile, I said, "Fair point."

"Yeah." He jerked his head, indicating the front of the van. "Now, if it's all the same to you, we just enacted a jail break, and on top of kidnapping, that carries some pretty severe penalties if caught, so…"

"Personally, I'm just _dying_ to get thrown back into the asylum," I quipped, flashing him a grin. His response was the barest twitch of the lips, but given my strong sense that he was not a smiling sort of person, I marked the miniscule reaction as a compliment.

_Got to watch it with this one_, I thought as he turned away, indicating with a gesture that the other clowns should jump in the back. _I could like him._

I shook my head as I climbed into the passenger seat. The night that landed me in Arkham had taught me a few things, not the least of which was that getting attached to henchmen was heartbreak waiting to happen. Almost none of them lasted long, a fact underscored by the fact that I was being collected by three complete strangers—at least, I assumed that if either of the two men who hadn't taken their clown masks off knew me, they would have said so.

I'd been gone for three months, and I was just now really realizing that I would probably be going back to a hideout full of strangers. The thought bothered me a little, but I worked hard to tamp it down—Javier had been my favorite, and I was determined that he would be the first and last. Henchmen were worker bees; I needed to remember that. Anyway, given George's apparent age, I wasn't holding out hope that there'd even be enough _time _to get attached to him. Even young men didn't last long in this game.

_Besides, _I told myself as George climbed into the seat beside me and started the engine, _all you need is the Joker, and __he__ will certainly be there. _The reminder had me smiling again, refocused me, and I turned slightly, determining to avoid conversation and instead get myself into a healthier, more natural headspace in preparation for my return home. Not that _Harleen Quinzel, Unwilling Prisoner _didn't have its perks, but really, being so sullen, angry, and joyless all the time exhausted me. The entire time I'd been imprisoned, I'd been a defensive little ball of a person, and it served to protect me well enough, but it wasn't _me. _Not all of me, anyway. It was time to bring back the parts of me I'd tucked safely away.

Fortunately, George didn't seem any keener to talk than I was, so I was able to just lean slightly against the window and watch the city fly by. It wasn't long before I felt myself smiling uncontrollably. Staring out the window from a static point behind bars just couldn't compare. I'd missed being _in _the city, passing through dark industrial complexes, skirting shabby little neighborhoods and always being aware of the skyline beyond the immediacy of the brick and mortar.

Two years ago, I'd have looked pointedly at the cracked asphalt and creaky monorail stations before laughing at myself. In truth, I hadn't developed this love affair with the city until I met the Joker. He was the one who showed me the beauty and secrecy of shadowed alleyways, the million ways to escape from those who would see us caught—the infinite means by which we could turn the amalgam of asphalt, concrete, metal, and glass into the perfect playground. Before I met him, I could only make my way around the Narrows and parts of Midtown with any confidence.

Now, I could find my way in any part of the city.

It was this familiarity that made me so sure we were going to a hideout that would be completely unfamiliar to me. Before my time in Arkham, we'd been staked out in an old, long-defunct power plant near Chinatown. It wasn't a surprise that he'd switched places while I was inside; that plant had been condemned and was just a brief resting place at best.

At any rate, it was in southwest Gotham, and George was driving distinctly towards the East River. In no time it all, we'd crossed the river via Calvary Bridge and found ourselves in one of many industrial zones—and from the looks of it, it was designed like most of the others, with cracked brick apartment buildings scattered around, a halfhearted neighborhood of tiny houses popping up here and there to provide housing for factory workers and families. It wasn't hard to figure out roughly where we were headed.

Sure enough, George parked the van in a flat, sad-looking little lot that held several other vehicles and looked rather like an abandoned construction site that had been converted into parking space. Without being asked, he directed my attention across the street, to a rundown two-story brick building planted alone on the corner.

"Started squatting here about a week ago," he said in his gravelly, unhurried way. "Far as I can tell, this place housed workers for that factory—" there, he pointed to a large, flat building further down the street—"but sometime around New Year's the place closed down, moved to Robinson County. Workers followed. There's been a _for lease _sign up for months, but Boss tore it down when we moved in, and judging by the state of the place, I don't think the landlord stops by too often."

"Well, if he does pay us a surprise visit, I'm sure J would have no problem taking care of it," I murmured, peering at the building. I was no stranger to big buildings—the abandoned or neglected places tended to be the ones that were too hard for landlords to take care of without shelling out a lot of money or time—but this one was distinctly more… homey than our usual hideouts. It looked almost like a boarding house instead of an apartment building. I felt a flutter of excitement starting in my belly

_He might be in there right now._

"Well, a lot of the factories around here are still functional," George said as he pushed his door open, and I followed suit, gladly stepping out into the open air again. "Place is pretty busy in the daytime, so the more recognizable among us usually save comings and goings for dark."

"Don't lounge around outside when the sun's out, got it."

"Dead at night, though. Even the people who live nearby don't step outside." He sniffed, scanning the street dispassionately. "Wonder why."

"Industrial spaces creep most people out, I think," I said, and as the other two clowns joined us, I took a slow breath. _Time to get back into the swing of things._

To my relief, George took the lead—I didn't want to be the first person to walk into a houseful of heavily-armed men not used to the sight of me. I didn't exactly want to be the last, either, so I kept fairly close to George's heels as he led the way across the street and up the rickety porch steps to the door, which he struck once, forcefully.

A shutter flickered. After another second, I heard multiple locks being undone, and then the door swung open.

George entered silently. I followed, and as the stranger who'd opened the door to admit us stepped aside without a word, I saw recognition flicker in his eyes. I glanced away. I'd meet all the new guys in time—right now, there were more important things to do. Get a sense of the layout of the house, for instance. Find the Joker.

George led the way into a large central room that had been decked out with battered, mismatched furniture and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke—a recreational space for the guys, judging by the number of men clustered around the flimsy card table in the middle of the room. I paused briefly to see if I recognized any of them—I didn't—before stepping quietly out of the room to get a good look at the rest of the house.

I moved from room to room, noting that if the place had once been a house with normal furniture and typical homey rooms, it was far closer to a barracks now. A lot of rooms were just empty. One room had nothing in it but sleeping bags strewn all over the floor. One room had folding tables set up and lining the walls, their surfaces entirely covered with guns, boxes of ammunition stacked beneath them. Yet another room had drums of gasoline shoved in a corner, C4 explosives neatly stacked on a metal shelf unit, and varying chemicals separated according to type on yet another plastic table. "And they _smoke _in this house," I growled to myself between gritted teeth before closing the door, promising myself that I'd have a word with J about it later.

Near the back of the house was a barren room that yielded nothing but a staircase with at least one broken stair and three doors lining its walls—one out, one in, and one that opened to a downwards staircase leading to a darkened basement (I closed that door immediately without investigating further). I refrained from going upstairs, either, wanting to finish my exploration of the first floor before moving up.

The kitchen marked the completion of my circle—there was nothing to close it off; it opened up wide to connect to the main room again, easy access. In that kitchen area, I found an unpleasant surprise.

The petty, vicious little shitstain that met me there was called Ace, and out of all the henchmen we'd gone through, he was easily my least favorite. A juiced-up, strung-out white guy with ugly tattoos, he'd joined us at some point in January and had immediately made it clear that in his opinion, I was the Yoko Ono of the group and would inevitably bring the Joker's entire organization (if you could call it that) down. A couple of hard knocks, most from me but a notable few from a Joker annoyed by his passive-aggressive muttering, taught him to keep his mouth shut most of the time.

I could tell by the smirk he gave me as I entered the kitchen that those lessons had been all but forgotten, and I didn't even try to hide my groan at the sight of him. "Ugh. You're still alive? I was sure you'd die while I was away."

"Yeah, well, I was sure the Joker would wise up once you left and would leave you in the nuthouse. I guess you can't always get what you want."

I showed him my crossed fingers, then let my middle finger loose and flipped him off before turning around and leaving, his derisive laughter filling the kitchen behind me.

I doubled back to the staircase and went up to the second floor, skipping over the broken steps. It led to a long hallway, and after checking the first room and seeing nothing but more sleeping bags on the floor, I had a better idea of where I was going. The Joker always preferred to choose a room somewhat set apart from the henchmen. I went to the door at the very end of the hall and nudged it open.

No Joker. Although the excitement in my stomach flattened out into disappointment, I'd really been expecting it. If he hadn't had something to do, he'd have picked me up himself. If George was right and comings and goings were limited to night time, he'd have probably left as soon as the sun set.

However, this _was _his room, as was apparent from the clothing strewn about, the mattress on the ground, and the paper-covered desk shoved into the corner, and I couldn't think of a better place to hole up and wait for him to get back.

I realized as I went to the mattress that it actually had _sheets _covering it, and I felt myself smiling. _That's _something that had definitely changed since I'd started working and living with him; it was nice to see he was keeping the standards up even though I hadn't been around during the move. Heartened, I went over, nearly dropped backwards onto the mattress, and then thought better of it. Instead, I dropped to my knees and started searching under the pillows and wadded-up blanket.

I found a screwdriver, two folding knives that were definitely _unfolded_, and a pair of pinking shears. With a sigh that was born more of affection than annoyance, I removed them to the desktop. _Then _I dropped backwards onto the mattress.

The sheets smelled faintly of a mixture of fire smoke and sharp, caustic chemicals. A year ago I might have turned my nose up, but now I associated the smells with him, and I flipped over, curling my arms around the nearest pillow, burying my face into it, and _breathing. _

Scent is the sense that ties most directly into memory. I didn't realize it until that moment, but it was only then that I _truly _believed I was back home.

I lay there for a while, letting the sense of security wash over me, letting the smell of him fill me up. I felt warm, and happy, and if it had been up to me, I would have fallen asleep right then and there—it wasn't as if I'd been sleeping very well of late, after all. However, as tired as I felt, it would have to wait. My mind was racing with ideas, to-do lists, and excitement that I was _going to get to see him again_. There was no way I could sleep.

First off. It had been hard to tell in the prison jumpsuit, but now that I was in civilian clothes again, I was becoming aware of an uncomfortable truth—my frequent lack of appetite for prison food had taken a toll, and I guessed that I weighed about ten pounds less upon my escape from Arkham than I had when I'd been committed. Sure, I was aware that plenty of people would look scornfully at me, "_Oh, boo-hoo, you're ten pounds skinnier, cry me a river_," but those people wouldn't think of it as such a gift if they ever had to work with the Joker's crew. The stress of the job was bad enough, but if you were in less than peak physical condition, you could say goodbye to safe escapes. I was missing muscle _and _fat, and I needed both—the former for stamina, the latter for energy. I was going to have to both gain weight and get in shape again, and quickly.

_Gaining weight shouldn't be a problem around here, what with the fact that our henchmen __**live**__ off of pizza and hamburgers. _Honestly, it was little wonder we lost as many henchmen as we did, what with their dietary habits. No, the challenge would come with putting muscle back on. I'd need to start a rigid workout routine more or less immediately.

Next, I rather reluctantly left the bed and went nosing around the room, looking for any of my stuff. I didn't find anything, which wasn't fun, but also wasn't altogether surprising—again, the man was scatterbrained. If he _didn't _remember to bring it along, if it _wasn't _stashed absentmindedly in a closet somewhere (the most likely option, I thought), then it would probably be back at the old hideout. Shouldn't be too hard to nip in and collect it; I'd have to ask him about it once he got back.

My search of the room did yield a mirror, though, and that mirror, in turn, yielded an unpleasant truth: I just looked much more like _Harleen_ than like _Harley Quinn_. My dark roots had grown in, a full inch and a half, and without makeup or clothes that actually fit, I looked… little. Harmless.

I shook my head in annoyance at my reflection and scrambled around until I found a black beanie, the kind we all wore now and again on jobs, and I jammed it on my head to obscure the my roots until I could do something about them.

That was when I heard the footsteps coming down the hall.

He had a way of walking that I'd spent enough time around him to instantly recognize—very possibly _intentionally _terrifying, but not in a way that you'd suspect drew undue effort from his part. It was just the unhurriedness of it, sometimes even accompanied by the scraping of his shoes against floorboards if he was feeling particularly languid. Everyone else around him walked with a certain clip to their step, afraid of being caught off their game, whether they were on his side or not. Not him. He always took his time.

I bounded to the center of the room, feeling almost guilty for reasons I couldn't pinpoint—maybe I shouldn't have waited in his room, maybe I should have greeted him at the door when he first arrived back, maybe I shouldn't have been looking around in his stuff, it had been months, after all, what if he was still mad?

I shoved the worries into the back of my mind as hard as I could. _Of course you're allowed to be in here, you shared his bed for months, and if he was still angry then he never would have had expended the effort to have you broken out of Arkham, and he __**definitely**__ wouldn't have you brought back to the hideout if you weren't supposed to resume your old role._

All the same, I was aware that I was trembling. The prospect of seeing him again had me shaken up for more reasons than just those nagging doubts.

_I think I'm going to explode. _So much time spent avoiding the very thought of him, both for his protection and my own emotional defense, meant that the sense of familiarity I'd built with him, with the _idea _of him, was all but gone. My stomach was in knots and I felt the strange, impossible urge to just bolt.

Then, the door creaked open. He pushed it open slowly, probably made aware of _someone's _presence by the shadows caused by my movement and wanting to clear the room before just wandering in—an appropriate instinct for him. All the same, it took mere seconds before the view out into the hallway was clear and I could _see _him.

All of a sudden, it was hard to remember how to breathe.

He was dressed the way he dressed when he was anticipating being seen by anyone not part of the crew—heavy purple greatcoat over the immaculately-tailored three-piece purple-and-green suit. The usual makeup was on in full, though judging by the lack of streaks in it, judging by the fact that his green hair (brown at the roots—like me, he'd need to re-dye, though I'd wager on him putting it off for far longer than I would) was crisp and dry, he hadn't been doing anything that required too much exertion. He stood there in the hallway, tall, shoulders slightly hunched, taking up most of the doorframe due to the heavy coat, and he stared at me with sleepy eyes.

I found it difficult to stare back. I was out of practice holding his eyes, reading and withstanding the savagery lazily concealed in those contracted pupils. In a lot of ways, being around the Joker was like being around some huge, predatory animal—you had to know how to move around him, and even though on one level I knew that my fear was absurd, on another, I was scared that I had forgotten.

I wanted to run past him. I wanted to run _to _him, cling to him and never let go again. I wanted to turn around, make a mad dash for the bed and hide under the covers like a child hiding from monsters until he finally _did _something.

I did none of these things. I made myself be strong, hold eye contact, and wait for him to move.

Finally, he stepped into the room, moving towards me. He took another step, then another, and another, until he was standing directly in front of me and I could barely breathe—

—and then, he was sidestepping me, his shoulder barely brushing mine as he slipped his coat off. In the next second, the coat was in my arms, and he was heading for the desk, dropping into the chair with a long sigh.

I stared at the back of his head as he hunched over the desk, rustling through the papers that completely obscured the surface, and I was utterly bewildered. Whatever I'd been expecting, that wasn't it.

_It's gotta be a joke, _I thought. He always did have an entirely inappropriate sense of humor—typically funny to me, but when one was the butt of the joke, it changed things a little bit. Still, I wasn't set to ruin my long-anticipated return home by complaining, so I just set the coat down on the mattress and said, "Ha, ha, very funny. Hello to you, too."

"Mm," he grunted distractedly, and then: "Harley, put on a pot of coffee, wouldja? I'm _beat_."

I stood in the center of the room, staring at the back of his head, arms hanging loose, waiting for the other shoe to drop. _It's gotta be a bad joke, right? Not even __**he's**__ this cruel._

He mumbled a quick "A-ha" as he found a laptop buried somewhere beneath all the paper, and with one purposeful move, he opened the screen and fired it up. He did not look at me.

It finally sunk in that this was not just his bizarre way of getting a laugh out of the whole situation. It finally sunk in that either my entire absence had gone mostly unnoticed, or that he was determined to pretend it hadn't happened at all.

And either way, _it fucking hurt._

The feeling of not being able to breathe hadn't left, but now, it was borne of pain instead of anticipation or the vague fear that he might still be angry with me. Slowly, I lifted my arms and folded them tight across my middle, nodding slightly as my jaw tightened in suddenly-angry resolution.

_All right, fine. If that's the way he wants it. I don't exactly feel like hanging around in an explosion risk zone with a bunch of smelly henchdudes that I don't even know, anyway. I've got more important things to do._

"Fair enough, Mr. J," I muttered as I bent over and performed a quick search of the pockets in his coat. _Bingo. _I emerged quickly with a wad of bills, which I shoved into my back pocket. A quick glance in the Joker's direction revealed that he hadn't so much as turned his head. I straightened up and forced some lightness into my voice, unwilling to let on how much his dismissal had hurt and angered me. "I'll go see what they've got in the kitchen." Swiftly, not sure I'd be able to keep from stalking over and thwacking him in the back of the head before I took my leave, I twisted around and walked out the door, trying to pretend I didn't hear his insulting half-grunt of distracted acknowledgement.

* * *

**A/N** - Please don't kill me—it wasn't my decision, I swear, it was Joker's. He wouldn't let me do anything else. That said, y'all say it with me: what a COMPLETE and TOTAL DICK.

I am SO sorry it's been so long since the last update; I've been massively overstressed with work/family issues so I haven't had the time to work on it until now. Forgive me, please! I'll be making every effort to update at least once a week in the future.

I think everyone should know that George is modeled heavily after Mike from Breaking Bad. That was a decision I made to relieve my own (strong, numerous) feelings about Mike/therapy because after the show ended I started going through Mike withdrawals so I had to find some way to obliquely kind of bring him into a space where I could write about him. If you've seen the show, you'll know what I'm talking about—if you haven't seen the show, you should, because it is a modern marvel and Mike is my heart.

I thought I should clarify, since a few people commented on it—despite Harley's accusations, J wasn't scared of the baby, nor was he nervous or like… in any way intimidated by it. He reacted that way because I imagine his feelings towards babies these days can basically be summed up by "Ew." Which… I have a vague feeling, based on absolutely nothing (except perhaps the fact that Heath Ledger himself had a child), that the Joker was a father at one point, so his repulsion also might have something to do with the Joker tending to completely divorce _Joker_ from… whoever he was before. Don't want to get too much into it because there's going to be a discussion of his [lack of] backstory later (don't worry, I'm not going to try to give him one, one of my absolute favorite things about Ledger's Joker is the total lack of history or information about who he USED to be) so we'll discuss it then. :)

Additional bonus feature of sorts (which is code for "narratively it won't naturally come about for it to be addressed in the story/Harley's so comfortable with her suspicions of Wilson that she won't pursue them, so I'm telling you now"): the recordings of the Joker's voice? That's all J. He's got an orderly and a guard in his pocket, time for the breakout isn't quite right, so in the meantime he figures he might as well fuck with his girlfriend some/make her suspect her sanity/make her suspect her doctors/make sure he's at the forefront of her mind, just 'cause he _can_. I repeat: the guy's a dick.

I posted responses to Panda and Emma's reviews on the blog, since I know ff dot net gets a little iffy when you do review responses in the chapter, so y'all go check that out. I'm going to be traveling and visiting a friend next week but hopefully I'll be able to update regardless. In the meantime, thank you all for the encouragement and patience. You guys rock.


	8. you left me outside

**Chapter Seven**

**your heart is locked, you left me outside**

_Without a chance now  
There's no romance now  
I better leave before I break  
But your heart is locked  
You left me outside_

**-The Dead Weather, **_**Outside**_

I was all but running by the time I hit the stairs, and I trotted down them at a speed that was probably unsafe for someone my height. Once I hit the ground, I veered directly left and crossed through the house again, ignoring the back exit. I wasn't lying. I fully intended to check the kitchen, but not for coffee.

The kitchen was empty, but that wasn't saying much, given that the room it connected to was fuller than ever of a group of loud, poker-playing, cigarette-smoking, gun-cleaning men. I ignored them because I was angry, because I wasn't sticking around, and because there was no better way to get a jump on my resolution to avoid getting close to the guys than to appear standoffish. Instead, I started yanking drawers out and hunting through cabinets.

It wasn't long before I felt a presence drifting close from the main room, and I glanced up briefly to see George. Reading his body language and deciding he meant no harm, I went right back to my search.

"D'you mind telling me what you're looking for?"

I found a switchblade stiletto in a drawer, pocketed it, and only then paused to take another look at him. He was leaning against the shitty old refrigerator, arms crossed, watching me but unthreatening. Pensively, I weighed my options. _He doesn't exactly strike me as the stir-the-pot type, so the most likely reaction is a simple "Good luck." He might even bother to help me out. However, if he __**does**__ try to stop me, the resulting commotion might actually draw the Joker's attention away from his damn laptop. It'd be a win-win for me, ultimately._

I slammed the drawer I'd just finished searching shut and looked him in the eye. "Trying to find keys for a car that works."

His eyebrows twitched, just barely, but again—microexpressions. "What, that fast?" he mumbled, but, sensing it was a rhetorical question, I didn't respond. He pushed away from the fridge and went to the opposite counter, one I hadn't gotten around to yet, and lazily pulled open a drawer. I heard the unmistakable sound of keys clinking against one another as he rummaged around, and then he withdrew a ring that held two.

He closed the door and turned around to face me. He met my eyes, making sure he had my attention, and then pointed to one of the keys. "House." He pointed to the other key. "Car." I glanced at keyring, then back at him, waiting warily. He palmed the ring and then tossed it to me. "You're looking for the rust-colored '99 Toyota Camry. No one should need it for a while, windows make it conspicuous for transporting more than one or two rough-lookin' guys at a time."

I caught the keys and slowly slipped them in my pocket next to the money I'd lifted from the Joker, still wary, still watching George. He turned as if to go, then thought twice and glanced back at me. "Try not to get caught, all right?" he requested, his tone weary, as if he was already anticipating having to work another breakout.

I couldn't help but flash him a smile, despite my determination to stay aloof, especially from him. "I think I can probably swing that," I said with a faux-arrogant jerk of my chin, and then walked past him, heading for the door.

Naturally, since my ideas never worked as planned, I was halfway through the main room when I ran into trouble.

"Hey, blondie, where do you think _you're _going?"

Common sense said to just keep going, but I couldn't help pausing midstep, because I just _hated _him so much it was hard for me to ignore his taunting like I should have. Still pointed towards the door, I looked over my shoulder at where Ace was sprawled out across the couch, looking insufferably smug, his booted feet up on a weapons chest that I supposed served for a coffee table. I fired over my shoulder: "Ace, seriously. Just stick your face in a blender or something. It'd be _such _an improvement."

He vaulted off the couch and came at me, and I stood my ground, knowing that to turn tail now would leave all the new guys with the wrong idea. Doubtless, this was what this little showdown was about, and although I was more than ready to just get out of there, I couldn't afford to let the new guys think they could just mess with me and get away with it. It was bad enough that he'd been whispering in their ears for months now, bad enough that they were used to a boys' club and that with Ace's influence, it wouldn't be hard for them to think of me as nothing but an annoying millstone.

I waited patiently until he reached me, tilting my head back so I could look him in the eye and be sure that he saw the contempt on my face. He all but checked over his shoulder to make sure the others were looking before saying, "Cute. Real cute, Harley, but you didn't answer my question."

"Well, you know, I really don't _have_ to, so…" I said, turning to go.

Ace grabbed my elbow and I twisted back around immediately, glaring daggers, but he ignored the dangerous expression on my face, too busy asserting his imagined authority: "We _just _brought you home. I don't imagine the boss wants you stepping out again so soon. I mean, you might get _caught _again."

I stared directly into his face, eyes blazing and unblinking, and I said clearly, "You're obviously laboring under the same delusions you had when I left, so let me make this as clear as I possibly can: _you_. Have _no idea_ what the boss wants." As he scoffed, glancing around for emotional support, I went on: "And _you_ have absolutely no authority over _me_, especially not any that would allow you to dictate my comings and goings. So, again, as clear as I can possibly make it: fuck _off, _Ace."

I turned towards the door again, but I was obviously right about my time away bestowing the little cretin with misplaced confidence, and he grabbed me again, this time by the shoulder.

The muscle memory kicked in, and I found myself slipping back into my old ways purely by instinct. My arm came up to bat his hand away from my shoulder, and as I simultaneously lifted my knee, he jerked back, going to protect his crotch. I'd never really been one for groin hits unless I was in serious danger, though, not when the instep was so very painful and so very debilitating, so in a flash I brought my booted heel down on the top of his foot as hard as I could. His shrill, short cry as he recoiled was very, very satisfying.

I knew the respite wouldn't last long, not with his need to be taken seriously, regarded as someone powerful. He would push past the pain, and so I pulled the stiletto I'd found in the kitchen out of my pocket and flicked out the blade. By the time he recovered enough to turn back to me, I was standing with knees slightly bent, knife held ready at my waist, other hand held at my chest, ready to block his fist should he take a swing, which would have the convenient effect of exposing his vital organs to my knife hand.

Ace may have been a misogynistic, power-thirsty prick, but there was a reason he'd survived more than six months working for us—he had a pretty good instinct for when a situation had just gotten life-threatening. Whether he was capable of listening to that instinct, though, was another thing, especially when the threat was coming from one of the people he hated most in the world. He met my eyes and I could see him weighing his options, stacking his superior height and build against my speed and training (especially with a knife—I'd been the Joker's loyal pupil every day he had time for me for many months). I could see him trying to decide if engaging me further would be worth risking some severe knife wounds at the very least, read the subtle changes in his face as he realized that if he did serious harm to me, he may well have to contend with the boss.

"Stop making an ass out of yourself, kid."

Surprisingly enough, the condescending line didn't come from me. Our standoff momentarily forgotten, Ace and I glanced into the living room—where George had settled down on the recently-vacated couch, not even looking at us, his attention turned to a water-spotted magazine he'd picked up somewhere.

Apparently, the threat to his masculinity was greater when he was being called out by another guy, and he barely glanced at me as he turned away to snarl at George: "What the fuck do you mean?"

"You heard me," George said, sounding perfectly disinterested, but I didn't stick around to see how things would pan out—I'd delayed too long already. Without further notice, I slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind me.

I found the Toyota Camry George had indicated in the little lot across the street, fortunately unblocked by the vans also parked there. The engine struggled a little to turn over, but once it did, I was pleased to find that the car didn't make any attention-grabbing noises that sometimes came with old vehicles—no screeching power steering or whiny brakes. I pulled out onto the road with a very clear game plan.

First, I crossed the bridge back into Gotham proper.

As soon as I was back in Downtown Gotham, I stopped at a 24-hour drugstore. I paused before leaving the car, tucking my hair up into the beanie I still wore, but it was just an extra precaution—I wasn't particularly concerned about being recognized. Even if my escape had made the news by now (I was willing to bet it hadn't; it had only been two hours and David would want to spend every last minute searching the grounds to ensure that I was actually gone before reluctantly calling in the police, who would then spread word to the press), this chain didn't let their employees watch any TV but the security camera. Besides, unless the Joker (i.e. immediate and terrifying physical danger) was present, people usually waited until the criminal left before calling the cops. Less hassle that way.

I fed the meters with some quarters I found in the center console, then skipped inside. There, I hunted down black eyeliner, red lipstick, razors, body wash, and hair dye. The hair aisle gave me just a moment's pause—I quickly found my usual golden-blonde color, but just next to it was an assortment of much more vivid, unnatural colors—blues, greens, pinks… and peroxide blonde.

I'd never gone platinum before, and I'd need to re-bleach my roots anyway. I studied the dye, working my lip, for less than a minute before throwing it in my basket. If it sucked, I could dye it a darker blonde again with no one the wiser.

I threw a pair of black-framed, one-dollar reading glasses on top of the pile, because "hipster wearing useless glasses" was always my favorite incognito look, and then I checked out.

I looked plainer than ever with my hair hidden, no makeup, and baggy clothes, and, as predicted, the cashier didn't give me a second glance. I paid with my stolen cash, not without a tinge of satisfaction at the thought that the Joker was financing my girls' night, and left.

Purchases safely in the passenger seat, I drove to Upper Chelsea Hill, to a neighborhood of identical brownstones close to Robinson Park. At this time of night, street parking was a possibility, and I landed a spot just beyond the end curb. I collected my shopping bag and all but skipped up to the brownstone at 06 Venus Street—the home of Pamela Isley, my best friend.

No one responded my knocks. I gave it a minute, then shrugged, unconcerned. She never wanted me to be stranded in case I needed a place to stay, and so we had a rather unique system in place. I turned to the potted plant on the doorstep, a single, sturdy stalk that bore a large, closed bud, and waved my hand gently in front of it. In a matter of moments, the bud opened, exposing the key housed inside.

Pam had once tried to explain the scientific process behind this plant—her own breed—to me. Something about hybridizing distant relatives of orchids and venus flytraps and making them responsive to specific pheromones (mine and Pam's, to be precise), but botany had always been above my head, much to Pam's frustration. All I cared about was that first, the plant was the most creative hide-a-key spot I'd ever seen and my friend was a genius, and second, I had a way into her house without having to pick the lock.

I removed the key gently from the bud, which closed up right away once I withdrew, and let myself in.

Once over the threshold, I took a second to breathe in my best friend's smell—her house always smelled like the woods, in no small part because of the amount of houseplants she kept. Despite my own ineptitude around anything that could qualify as "nature," the smell was comforting, because it meant that I would soon be safe with my best friend.

"Pam?" I called out, aware that the place was pitch black. Not that odd—it was after midnight, but then, ever since her "murder," she'd been keeping almost the same hours as I did. I'd be surprised if she was already in bed. "Red?" I called again, but when I got no response, I shrugged and flipped on the lights. I was sure she'd be back in time. In the meantime, I had things to do.

Due to the combination of vanity and curiosity, my hair fell at the top of the list. I let myself into Pam's cramped little bathroom and got to work.

An hour and a half later, hair platinum blonde through and through, I rinsed out the bleach at the sink. I was rubbing in the deep conditioner that came with the kit when I caught a flicker of motion in the mirror, and I straightened up fast to see—

—Pam, peering around the corner of the door, a little derringer held carefully at chest level. I saw recognition flicker in her eyes, and knowing that she could hardly be called trigger happy, I grinned at her through the mirror. "Better call the cops, Red. There's a fugitive in your house."

She reached for the door and pushed it open, and I stepped out of its way so that she could take a step into the bathroom with me. I kept combing the deep conditioner through my hair, but stared unashamedly at her through the mirror, drinking in the first sight of my best friend in three months.

With her thick, long red hair, green eyes, impeccable, classical bone structure, and strong chin, it wasn't hard to find her terrifying, but I was used to terrifying these days. Looking at her, I mostly saw _beautiful. _Unfortunately for the population of humanity—men in particular, but most women as well—she despised them and their cavalier dismissal of her beloved cause: the preservation of the earth. Fortunately, that dislike didn't extend to me, and selfishly, I was glad. Pam was a good friend, a better friend than I deserved.

Now, she lowered her gun, assessed the scene, and then met my eyes and spoke for the first time. "Harley, tell me you have not been washing harsh and toxic chemicals down my drain."

I froze, deer in headlights. "Ummm," I said, turning to look at the damning evidence—the bleach kit, spread all over the counter, definitely used. There was no way I was going to be able to lie my way out of this one. "Um, well, _hypothetically_…"

She narrowed her eyes, giving me a flash of that terror I mentioned. "And that is a horrible, _inconsiderate_ idea… why?"

_Come on, Harley, you've got this one. _I hunted through my memories quickly, trying to remember the times I'd actually paid attention to Pam's ranting (and to be fair to me, she did it ninety percent of the time—I didn't blame her, we both had our obsessions, there was no use pretending we didn't occasionally tune each other out). It took me a second, but then I snapped my fingers, recalling: "Cause you're on a greywater system!" I said, a little too triumphantly.

She narrowed her eyes further, and I flinched. "Oops."

She stood there in imposing silence for a moment as I held perfectly still, eyes down, waiting for her to pronounce judgment. Finally, after about seven seconds, she relented. "Fortunately for you, the current system is pumping water into the toilets instead of the reservoir I use to water the plants," she told me loftily, and when I flashed a grin, she pointed threateningly at me: "Never. _Again_."

"You got it, Red!" I chirped.

Relaxing a bit, she peered more closely at me. "What is that… platinum?"

"Oh. Yeah," I said, turning back to the mirror. "Yeah, that's why I'm not hugging you right now, my hair is all soaked and bleached. Speaking of which. Can I use your shower?"

She eyed me critically through the mirror. "I suppose it's too much to ask to request that you keep it to three minutes?"

I flinched and turned towards her, switching on my best pleading face. "Red, I've been on timed showers for _three months. _Give me just this _one _time and I _swear _I'll keep to your three-minute limit from now on."

She heaved a long-suffering sigh, but for once, didn't argue. "Fine. I guess you deserve some sort of indulgence after the unfortunate last few months. I don't suppose you're hungry?"

At the reminder, my stomach rumbled. "Pam. Prison food is _the worst. _You would die."

"I'll take that as a yes. I'm making ginger stir fry. I'll make an extra portion for you." She double-took. "Make that _two_."

Seeing her obvious disapproval of my weight loss, I decided to press my luck. "Too much to ask if I asked for chicken with mine?" Her face told me all I needed to know, and I did my best not to sulk. Being best friends with a vegetarian had its drawbacks. "Fine," I sighed, and she stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Thirty minutes later, I emerged, feeling actually _human_. My hair looked and smelled unreasonably good for having just been bleached, the deep conditioner and a quick go-over with the hair dryer sending it well on its way to its usual bright appearance. I'd shaved my legs and underarms for the first time in months (even safety razors were deemed too much of a risk to hand over to the criminally insane, at least the women), and my skin smelled like a heady combination of lavender and vanilla courtesy of the body wash I'd chosen. Add your basic black eyeliner and some red lipstick, and I felt pretty again, reveling in the sensations that had been deemed "unnecessary and distracting luxuries" by the Arkham staff.

Not much could compete with the way I currently felt, but the smell coming from the living room was a threat, at least.

I followed my nose to find Pam sitting with her knees pulled up on one side of the couch, a bowl cupped in one hand, a fork held in the other—Pam never used chopsticks; she found them wasteful. As I paused inside the doorway, her eyes fell on me and then crinkled with the hint of a smile. "Look at you. Back from the dead and lookin' good." She pointed with her fork to another bowl on the coffee table, complemented by a glass of white wine. "Just finished. It's piping hot."

"I love you," I said frankly, dropping on the opposite side of the couch and gathering up the bowl. I could not cook. It was something I'd finally accepted after twenty-five-plus years of kitchen disasters. Pam, on the other hand, was essentially a master chef. Two minutes in your kitchen and she would have an idea for something not only delicious, but vegetarian as well. Not that I _preferred_ the vegetarian bit; it just impressed me that she had such an exhaustive range of go-to recipes that fit her dietary preferences.

The dish in question consisted of ginger-marinated vegetables (onions, carrots, snow peas, baby corn, bell peppers) on top of a generous portion of rice mixed with tangy seafood sauce. I nearly whimpered at the sight of it. After all that beige, mushy prison food, this looked like an actual paradise. For a good five minutes, I was totally silent, eating my first incredible meal since the escape.

In the end, Pam broke the silence, swiping daintily at her mouth with a cloth napkin before setting down her half-finished portion, picking up her wine glass, and looking at me. My mouth still full, I just widened my eyes questioningly at her, and she said simply, "So I assume he threw you out."

_Well. That stings. _My food felt like it had turned to dust in my mouth, but I still managed to swallow before setting aside my mostly-eaten bowl. I took a second, ostensibly checking to see if I had anything caught in my teeth but really just gearing myself up for the conversation, and then asked casually, reaching for my wine glass, "Why would you assume that?"

She rolled one shoulder casually forward, lifting her legs from the couch and setting her feet gracefully on the ground. "As much as I'd like to think your recent experience in Arkham brought you to your senses regarding the true nature of that… deranged _boyfriend _of yours, I know better than to hope. Unless you're telling me you _didn't _go there first?"

"I did, and I don't appreciate you calling him deranged," I said, shooting her a quick scowl.

She sighed, tilting her head back to glance at the ceiling as if for help before saying bluntly, "Harley, you know I'm not going to sugarcoat things, especially not with you. We're close enough that I won't disrespect you by telling you polite lies. I think your boyfriend is a psychotic murdering bastard, and in all probability, he probably thinks I'm a meddling bitch. I'm sorry if you feel caught between us, but you know better than to think our feelings about each other will be warm for your sake."

"Feelin' the love, Red," I said dryly.

Her first glass was finished. She reached for the bottle to refill it, and I tossed back what was left of mine and held my glass out to her in silent request. "I _do _love you," she said as she refilled my glass before hers. "That's why I say it. You have to know that there's someone who genuinely loves you—not just those quacks at Arkham—who thinks you'd be much better off without him. I mean, how exactly did it go down tonight? You break out of Arkham, see him for the first time in three months, and he throws you _out_?"

"Again, that's an assumption, and when you assume—"

"—you make an ass out of you and me," she recited wearily with me, and I beamed at her.

"See, there you go. No, as it happens, _he _organized my breakout. No bloodshed or anything; I was out of there in fifteen minutes."

"How gallant of him."

"Quit being _judgey,_" I scolded her. She showed her palms in surrender, and I went on. "Anyway, I got back to the new hideout, and… well, it's not like he was an asshole or anything. He just didn't really acknowledge me." Pam raised an eyebrow, a sort of nonverbal _and that's not being an asshole?_ I glared at her, but finished: "So I decided that if my presence wasn't immediately _required, _then I might as well go out and see what you were up to. Hideout's full of strange men, not exactly the best environment for the whole hair and makeup thing."

Her cheek twitched, and I could see her decision to lay off the Joker for now coming a second before she made it. "Even if you get scolded for washing your hair bleach down the sink?" she asked, offering a small smile from behind her glass.

"Trust me, I've been yelled at for weirder things," I said, stretching out a hand. She laced her long, thin fingers through my much smaller ones, and we smiled at each other for a few seconds before I took a sip of wine and abruptly switched subjects. "So. _Lily. _What have you been up to?"

The question was a loaded one. Nearly a year ago, on a business trip to Egypt, Pam's superior, Jason Woodrue, had attempted to poison her. To make a long story short, Pam had saved herself with an injection of the prototype anti-toxin that she'd been developing, Woodrue fled, Pam dumped a pint of her own blood onto the hotel room floor, and after laying low in a hostel for a little while, she managed to persuade a businessman with a private plane to take her along to Gotham, which was on his flight plan. She was never too clear on the details, and I never pressed her, reading clear signs of trauma from her in her early days back.

Over time, though, she'd recovered somewhat, and with her recovery came purpose. Essentially, given that Woodrue had disappeared and revealing that she was alive would cause more trouble than it was worth, Pam decided to buy a fake identity (not cheap, but over the winter she and I pulled several little stunts that resulted in a tidy nest egg for her to work with). She settled on the name Lily Frost.

_Lily_ was sick and tired of watching her world get treated like a trash can, and once she was re-established as a brand new person, she went to work. I was more than pleased to see that she was ready to get her hands dirty, but I worried. While I leaned more towards flashy chaos, Red's vendettas were much more personal. She focused on CEOs of decidedly eco-unfriendly companies and developers that were willing to tear up parks and protected spaces in order to plant new neighborhoods and business, and her intent was deadly: she intended to poison each and every ungrateful soul until her message was received. Her targets were much higher-profile, but as of yet, I hadn't had reason to worry about her getting caught: she'd only killed one person by the time I went into Arkham, an incident which prompted her to fall back—the toxin wasn't good enough, she said; it needed more work before she could risk it again.

(I'd assisted her in that first effort, and at some point during my frequent visits during her initial efforts to develop the perfect toxin, I'd brought Dr. Jonathan Crane along purely by accident. It… hadn't exactly gone well. While I could see a certain grudging respect from each one for the other's intellect, as far as their personalities went… well, for someone who held such contempt for the term _frenemy, _Crane was certainly adept at making them.)

When I'd gotten thrown in the asylum, Pam had still been conducting research, reviewing targets, perfecting her poison. Now, she turned her gaze to the side thoughtfully, considering how to answer my question with two glasses of wine in her.

"A lot, really. There are a lot of things I want to do, Harley, and I've taken so long since getting back already, but… I don't want to start, _really _start, until I actually _know _what I'm doing and how I want to go about it."

I raised my eyebrows. "What, Pennington wasn't a start?"

She waved her glass dismissively. "Pennington was a practice run. And it didn't go well; the police knew that he was poisoned and that the poison was monkshood-based."

"They didn't trace it back to you; I call that a success."

"Yeah, I have a few advantages on my side at the _moment_, but I have to be more sophisticated. I don't want to go to prison."

"No, you don't," I agreed, shuddering into my wine glass.

Pam refilled hers and continued. "I know there are toxins out there that don't kill as immediately as most others and that don't show up on the average autopsy. I need to find something that causes a death that looks natural enough for an overstressed old man that no one looks twice. I'm working on it, I feel I'm growing close, but…" She trailed off and clicked her tongue.

"I have total confidence in you," I told her.

The smile she gave me was almost shy—a smile that I was pretty sure only _I _ever received from Pam these days. Especially since the incident with Woodrue, she was so committed to presenting herself as a scary, confident ice queen that she rarely took time off from that persona. When she did, it always felt like a reward, and I returned the smile with a glowing one of my own.

"At any rate," I said, straightening up and reaching for the wine bottle again, "I definitely encourage being careful. I at least have a sort of mentor in my field, but as far as I know, you don't know any high-profile assassins ready to take you under their wings and teach you their ways." I frowned as I realized that the bottle was close to empty, and Pam picked up on the source of my discontent immediately.

"There's another bottle or two in the kitchen. Go get us one; it's been a long week for me, you deserve some kind of celebration, and we're just getting started."

I laughed and slipped from the couch, picking up the mostly-empty bottle. I realized once I got to my feet that the two full glasses I'd already consumed had gone to my head quicker than I anticipated, and I giggled as I tilted into the wall on the way to the kitchen. I felt a little spinny, but mostly, I just felt light and happy.

"So, I heard Doctor Cranky escaped about a week before you did," Pam called after me. "Did you see him at all beforehand?"

Doctor Cranky was her not-so-affectionate name for Jonathan. "As a matter of fact, I did," I replied. "He and I hung out a lot in the month or so before he broke out. Turns out he was manipulating me into sending him to the infirmary so he could make his escape."

"Typical. I'm just surprised it took so long."

"Oh, what_ever, _Red," I said, locating the new bottle and a corkscrew on the countertop nearby.

"_What_?" Her voice was louder; I imagined she was twisting around so that she could shout over the top of the couch towards the kitchen.

"Don't tell me you're not just pining away, waiting for the next time you see him."

"You _cannot _be serious," she said, voice half-choked with laughter.

I wasn't, really—it was mostly absent-minded wishful thinking on my part. I'd seen them quibbling, quarreling, and putting each other down with equal skill, and I didn't genuinely think there was some secret romance brewing, but at the same time, knowing how aloof and superior they both could be, I could see it as a potential good thing, them each being with someone who could actually keep up with their respective meanness and intelligence. Still, given Pam's contempt for people as a whole and Crane's stiff, standoffish behavior, I doubted that it was a realistic expectation.

Didn't stop me from giving her a hard time about it, though.

"Don't tell me you haven't even _thought _about it. He's a dick, yeah, but the man's pretty, in a creepy way. Plus. His eyes are unreal." Encouraged by the sound of her laughter spilling out from the living room, I went on: "You two could never have babies, though. You both already have the kind of bone structure that could put a man's eye out; to combine your powers and give them to an innocent infant like that would be totally irresponsible."

Her laughter stopped abruptly. I felt my forehead crease. "Too far? I was just teasing, Red—"

"Harley," she said, her voice sounding oddly thick, "can you come here, please?"

Confused and frowning, I took up my newly-filled glass and quickly padded out to the living room again. Pam was sitting rigidly upright, pressed hard against the back of the couch.

I followed her gaze across the room and promptly dropped my glass to the floor, where it shattered.

"Well, well… _well. _Isn't _this_, ah, _cozy._"

_Well, __**shit**__._

* * *

**A/N** - Henchmen and Pamela and cliffhangers, oh my!

First off- you guys have been tremendously patient with the erratic schedule, I just wanted to say that I appreciated that. My travels have been completed safely, I'm back at home, normalcy... should resume as usual, and with it should come a bit more stability/regularity with updates. At least until my brother's wedding in a couple of weeks (that's a joke. mostly. why is my entire family doing significant stuff this year?).

Secondly, this marks a point where I can _promise_ you the Joker will be much more involved than he has up till this point. I know it's been a long way and I really appreciate you all being invested in a story that's been practically Jokerless so far, but the big bad's back on scene now, and the story's about to start moving. About time. ;)

Also, Pam and Jon is my crackship. Can't help it. Not necessarily going to come to fruition, but can you imagine how much they'd HATE each other and how they'd both kinda be into that? Kind of? Just me? FINE.

All right, I'm worn out from an entirely sleepless night and a subsequent day spent on airplanes, so I'm going to retire now. Happy birthday to the guest reviewer, hope I made it in time! Thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing, it's always a huge boost. :) Until next time!


	9. you'll need me, and we can be obsessed

**Chapter Eight**

**you'll need me, and we can be obsessed**

_I'm here trying not to bite your neck,  
but it's beautiful, and I'm gonna get  
So drunk on you, and kill your friends.  
You'll need me, and we can be obsessed.  
And I can touch your hair, and taste your skin,  
The ghosts won't matter 'cause we'll hide in sin._

**Kyla La Grange, Vampire Smile**

Wine trickled over my toes, and I could feel the glass shards where they'd come to rest nestled dangerously next to my bare feet, but I didn't dare to move. Just like Pam's, my gaze was locked on the spectral figure across the room, the last person I expected to see here, at what I considered to be a safe house, beneath his notice.

The Joker seemed oblivious to the standstill his arrival had caused—though I knew better, knew he had designed his silent entry to achieve just such a reaction, and for an instant, I hated him for it. He was scary enough approaching in full view, in broad daylight, let alone slinking suddenly out of the shadows in one's home, where you were supposed to be _safe_. I knew him well enough to curse myself for not expecting it, but Pam didn't deserve this.

His greatcoat was back on, discouraging my hopes that this was just a _girl's-night-has-gone-on-too-long-so-don't-mind-me-just-fetching-her-back-home _errand. Reading the signal his attire sent out, I guessed that once he'd found me gone, he immediately figured out where I must be and decided that an introduction was long overdue.

I could have gone the rest of my life without introducing my boyfriend to my best friend. They hadn't even _spoken_ yet and I felt like I was about to jump out of my skin—almost wished I _could _to avoid the inevitable clash.

Still playing dumb to the tension, he prowled around the edge of the room, pausing at a glass hanging planter and extending a gloved fingertip to poke at the vines spilling from it down to the floor. I glanced over at Pam to see that she was tensing up, a muscle tightening in her jaw as she fought from yelling at him to back the fuck off. She was managing thus far, her common sense providing a cool hand of restraint, but I knew her temper. If he kept touching her plants, she wouldn't be able to keep from saying something, common sense be damned, and once she opened her mouth, she wouldn't be able to stop.

Clearly, the Joker wasn't going to lead, and it would definitely be better if Pam didn't talk. _I guess as the common denominator, the responsibility falls on me. Damn it all._

I pulled in a deep breath, trying to imagine that the oxygen filling my lungs was actually courage, and, still holding perfectly still, I spoke: "J. What are you doing here?"

He moved past the planter and glanced at me mid-stride, eyebrows lifting an inch as if he was actually surprised at the question, but I knew better. Keeping to the edges of the room, pausing at a lampstand arranged against the wall, he cleared his throat and said, "I, uh… well, I got _worried._"

"Worried," I repeated flatly, hoping that maybe he'd hear how ridiculous it sounded if it came from another's mouth. Maybe if we were alone, I might have allowed myself to be flattered by the lie, but adding Pam to the equation changed everything.

He glanced over at me again, and for a split second, I saw the skin around his eyes bunch up in genuine amusement, _ha ha ha, now _**_this _**_is fun_. Then, the poker face was back, and he swiveled to rest his back lazily against the wall, black eyes flicking from me to Pam then back again. "Well, _yeah_," he said, putting on that fake-concerned tone again. "I mean, _what, _I go through all this trouble to getchya out of _Arkham_, and you just, uh… _vanish_, first thing?"

"You didn't exactly seem invested in my comings and goings _earlier _tonight," I said, hearing myself get defensive, hating the speed at which I gave him a reaction but unable to control it.

He folded his arms and hunched back into the wall, ignoring me, his caricaturized body language making it evident that he was playing wounded boyfriend—_for who? For Pam?_ That didn't bode well; he had to know she would never take his side, had to have sensed how much she hated him. Him toying with her like this signaled danger, and I wanted to go over to the couch, to show both of them that I wasn't just going to abandon her to his nonexistent mercies, but I didn't dare move until I got a better sense of the situation.

He addressed Pam openly now, no longer even pretending to pay attention to me. "I mean, _think_ about it. We get her _out, _expect her to stay safe at the hideout until sheee, uh, gets back into the _swing _of things… then I turn around and she's _gone. _Now, just _imagine _what went through my head. She's gone and got herself _caught _again, that's what."

I was fuming, and a quick glance at Pam revealed a jaw clenched so tight it was getting ready to crack, but neither of us said a word. He had to talk this out before we had any idea of how this was going to go.

He paused, hollow eyes sweeping from her to me. "But then I remembered." I realized that his hand had inched out and landed on something on the lampstand, a picture frame. His fingers closed around it and lifted it nearer to his face for his perusal, and I didn't need to see it to know what it was—a photo of me and Pam, our cheeks pressed together as we grinned, out in the sunshine and surrounded by greenery in her favorite park, my arms around her, one of her arms around my shoulders and pulling me tight to her, her other arm out to hold the camera (her longer arms ensured that she always drew the short straw as far as picture-taking duties went). It was one of my favorite photos in existence, but now, seeing the way he was examining it, with one corner of his scarred mouth turned down sarcastically, I felt cool dread pooling in my belly. His jealousy came and went at strange times, erratic but constant enough that I always knew he didn't like to share me. Add that to the fact that he'd always been weird about Pam, almost never openly resentful of her but always seeming like he was _waiting _for something, and I felt a strong need to get him out of here _now._

Before I could take a step, he spoke again, gaze darting up from the picture to Pam in a flash. "I _remembered _that she has a _friend. _A, uh, _bestie _that she hasn't seen in _months. _So I grab the van, mosey over _here, _and… _voilà_. Imagine my _relief, _huh? She's not on the side of the _road_ somewhere, she's just…" He paused, lips pursing as he sucked his teeth with a quick squelch. "She's just _here_."

A moment of silence followed his conclusion. Again, I tried to make myself _do _something, fix the situation, but Pam's clear, controlled voice cut quietly through the room before I could muster the strength. "Yeah… _she _has a name, by the way. It's not like we're divorcées discussing custody of our kid who doesn't get a say. Is it?"

I closed my eyes for a split second. _Oh, no, Pam. No._

The Joker's eyes lit up, taking to the barely-veiled hostility like a shark took to blood in the water. "Good point," he purred, and pushed away from the wall, arms unfolding and dropping to hang stiffly at his sides, corpselike. His shoes scuffed against the wooden floor as he finally advanced further into the room, closer to the couch where Pam sat, but she didn't move, just tilting her head back to keep an eye on him as the distance between them shrank. He'd apparently taken her words to heart, though, ignoring her now in favor of me. "So. _Harley. _Care to introduce me to your, uh, _friend_?"

I watched him, aware that I was wearing my discomfort plain on my face but unable to pull it back. _Don't do this, _I tried to plead silently, praying that he would read my mind—it wasn't as if he hadn't done it before, after all.

He just stared blankly at me, waiting. After another beat of silence, aware that if I didn't play along then it would just be worse in the end, I heaved a quick sigh and said, "J, this is my friend, Pam. Pam, the Joker."

He flashed her a quick, muddy grin. "_Charmed,_" he hissed.

"Likewise," she said flatly, and to her credit, her tone wasn't as openly sarcastic as it might have been. There was another moment of heavy silence, and she took her cue. Carefully, watching him without blinking, she rose slowly to her feet, and when he didn't react, she spoke again. "I get the distinct feeling that you're the kind of man who appreciates a good line of bullshit, but I don't exactly have the patience for it, so you'll forgive me if I cut through. You're a murderer and a terrorist."

The Joker raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head slightly—a mixture of _wow, just gonna come right out and say it, huh _and _well, true enough._ Pam powered on: "I harbor no delusions about your regard for human life. I know that your being here right now is a bad sign. I know all this."

"Pam," I said, softly but warningly.

Pam, as always, knew better than I did. She went on, ignoring my interruption.

"In light of that, I want you to take the fact that I'm telling you what I'm telling you very seriously." He bent in a bit closer, folding his lips in on each other and lifting his black-smeared eyebrows to signal his undivided attention. Pam looked him directly in the eyes, pausing for a second to give the moment extra weight, and then, baring her white teeth just slightly, she ordered, "_Back the fuck off._"

His immediate reaction was to look over her shoulder at me, and I could read his expression clearly, layered over with mocking as it was—_is she serious_? I scowled ferociously, resenting the two of them putting me in the middle like this, but I wasn't willing to just stand back out of spite and let them hash it out by themselves. I knew too well how that would end.

"Pam, shut _up,_" I said sharply, but as predicted, once she'd gotten started, she was either unable or unwilling to stop.

"She's not your rag doll, clown," she spat, and he swiveled his head back, fixing his attention on her once more. "She's a living woman with free will. You don't get to dictate her comings and goings; only _she's _allowed to do that. She's decided she wants to be with _me _right now, and you can just back off and wait until she decides she wants to go back to you. _If _that ever happens."

Her brief, viciously-delivered rant gave way to a heavy, horrible silence. The Joker was looking at her as though he couldn't quite decide whether she was stupid or just unbelievably ballsy. I felt my eyes drift shut, slowly exhaling through my nose. _Now she's done it._

Then, the penny dropped.

It seemed like everything happened at once. The Joker went for Pam's throat; she batted his hand away and slipped off to the side, not wanting to trip over the couch just behind her. I launched myself towards the both of them, barely feeling the shards of glass pierce the soles of my bare feet, but Pam wasn't going to get far—the Joker caught her by the hair and hurled her face-first into the wall. It only took her a second to recover and turn back around to face the danger, but it was too late. He was right there, ugly, rusty-bladed knife in one hand, other hand plunging into her long hair again, this time to hold her.

That was about the time I reached them, having vaulted over the couch and crossed the room to where they were deadlocked against the wall. I felt the brief temptation to jump on his back, to try to give Pam a fighting chance, but I decided against it almost immediately. A display of defiance that bold would result in someone getting killed. Instead, I pulled to a stop beside him, gripping his coat tight at the elbow of the arm that held the knife. "J, _don't_," I said urgently.

He may as well have not heard me, for all the reaction I got. Pam, for that matter, took no notice of me either. Her green eyes, blazing in outrage, were fixed on his face, and for his part, he returned her gaze serenely, the corner of his mouth hitched up in clear amusement.

Despite being the source of conflict between them, I had essentially ceased to exist. Glancing from one face to the other, I was startled by a sudden pang of jealousy, stabbing me high in the belly. For a split second, all I could think was _he hasn't even touched me since I got back, _and all I could see was how close he was to her and how the knife blade was pressed almost lovingly against her white throat, and I felt tiny, worthless.

Pam spoke, keeping her chin up to avoid the touch of the blade. "Kill me and you'll lose her forever."

He shifted his weight, shoulders hunching closer to her and nearly obscuring my view, given how much smaller I was than both of them. I could only see his profile, his cheeks bunching up as he bit into the insides of his scars, then he asked, "Care to _bet _on it?"

I tried to swallow the useless jealousy, choked on it, then forced it down. Trying to keep my voice as furious and level as possible, I said, "_Both _of you are about to lose me, if that's really what this is about. I'm three seconds away from walking out of here and letting you guys kill each other."

Pam's eyes darted sideways to my face, almost exasperated, and simultaneously, the Joker addressed me, sounding insultingly preoccupied: "Not now, sweety-pie. Mommy and Daddy are working things _out._"

Now the jealousy was paired with rage. I felt the nearly-irresistible urge to kick him soundly in the shin—it was only my desire to save Pam's throat from any accidental nicks that prevented me from acting on it.

The Joker returned his attention to my best friend, tipping his head back and regarding her from the lower rims of his eyes. "You really _do _care about her," he observed, sounding almost bemused, as if the thought wasn't one he could easily grasp.

Pam was still glaring, a rattlesnake rendered ineffective by hands around her neck. "More than you _possibly _could, psychopath."

I refrained from pointing out the irony of them holding this conversation right now, right as I fluttered at their elbows trying to get their attention. The two glasses of wine had turned on me—instead of feeling light and happy, I felt heavy, my head starting to throb from the alcohol and the stress. I still maintained a death grip on the Joker's elbow, as if my attempts to restrain him would do any good once he decided he was done toying with Pam.

He absorbed the latest attack thoughtfully, as if they were doing nothing more strenuous than casually debating politics that neither of them cared much about. However, since I was watching his face, I saw that light bob to the surface of his eyes—the one that said _someone's about to get hurt, _and I tightened my grip on his arm until my knuckles went white. He didn't even seem to notice.

"Ya know, uh—Pam? _Pam,_" he decided, ignoring the way her glare intensified at the way her name sounded coming from his throat, and I thought, _oh, sure, with me it's 'Plant-Girl' and 'your tree-hugger friend,' but now that he's talking to _**_her_**_ he remembers her name._ "We're not that _different, _you and me."

Pam scoffed, I scowled, and the Joker pressed on, "_No_ no no no no, _listen,_" taking on the tone I knew well, _it sounds crazy but listen up and you'll learn something. _"You're _possessive. _I mean, take a _look_ at yourself. Your affection is more like… _smothering. _You might think your motives are… ugh, _pure, _but face it: you want her around to be pretty and to do what you tell her what to do. In a world that defines, umm, _love _as _selflessness_—" he paused, popped his tongue against his teeth the way he sometimes did when he was scoring a particularly effective point—"maybe you wanna re-examine what it is you _really _feel for her."

If looks could kill, the Joker would be underground on the spot. "You don't see the irony, _you _lecturing me about truly _loving _her?" she spat.

"Oh, _I _don't care what people wanna call what we have," he assured her. "That's between me and her." His lids lowered slightly, meditatively, as he regarded her. "But I get the _feel_ing… you _do_."

Pam's eyes widened slightly, and then she was turning to stare almost accusingly at me. "Are you _hearing _this, Harley? He's _admitting _that he doesn't care about you!"

"That's not how I heard it," I snapped back defensively, the heavy feeling from the wine combining with the angry jealousy and making me speak less gently to her than I normally would. "And anyway," I continued, dropping my voice as if the Joker wasn't right there with us, "you're _antagonizing _him. With you picking fights like this, it's no wonder he's reacting this way."

Pam's jaw dropped. "Are you fucking _kidding _me?" she demanded, seeming to momentarily forget about the blade at her throat—Pam always was incredibly brave, as if she truly believed that nothing would ever harm her. Normally, I found her attitude inspiring, worth emulating, if only to convince others that I was someone they didn't want to mess with, but just then, it was _stressing me out_. Pam, oblivious to my annoyance, continued: "Are you hearing yourself, making excuses for his behavior? This is _classic_ battered woman!"

"Uh, but I only beat her on Sundays," interjected the Joker.

I whirled on him. "Don't _you _start; this is _your _fault to begin with," I hissed.

He twitched his head to the side, as if dislodging a fly from his ear. "Fair enough," he said, and then planted the heel of his knife hand in the center of my chest and _pushed_. I stumbled backwards, the back of my thighs hitting the arm of the couch. Pam, in a fashion entirely true to her, reacted immediately once she no longer had a blade at her throat, aiming her foot at his groin.

His reflexes were with him, though, and he blocked with a knee, tightening his fist in her hair (pulling a yelp of startled pain from her in the process) and none-too-gently returning the knife to her throat. I started from the couch, but the moment he had Pam properly subdued, he twisted his head around to stare me down. "_Don't_ move," he barked at me. Without waiting for my response, he turned back to her, and, fearful and chastened, I leaned back against the arm of the couch, aware that the situation had taken a turn for the worse and that my interference would not help at this point.

He was speaking to her again, and I recognized the tone: it was the sort of mocking patience he used to address hostages, particularly those that were about to get blindsided. "So, listen, _Pam_… first thing: you're _wrong_. I _could _kill you. And uh, _Harley_?" He glanced over his shoulder to where I was shrinking against the couch—"_Sure, _she'd be mad at me. But you're lying to yourself if you think… what, that she'd, ah, give me _up _just cause I dumped you in the _river _somewhere. I mean, think about it. I kill _you_, and I'm all she has _left,_ really."

Pam stared at him, eyes huge but not afraid—more like _defiant,_ like she was daring him to do it already, and if I'd had the energy I'd have whispered her name, gotten her attention, _anything _to make her quit looking at him like that, but the Joker's shove had been the last straw. I had no more energy to try to influence this skirmish one way or the other.

The Joker wasn't finished. He leaned in, prompting Pam to jerk her head back so abruptly that the back of it banged the wall, the sound of the dull thud teasing a wolfish grin from him. "But I'm gonna let you in on a little secret," he continued, voice softer and more teasingly high-pitched now. "I'm not _gonna _kill you tonight. No, no, _nooo_… no, instead, I'm gonna _take _her from you. Again. In spite of _this_." All at once, he'd withdrawn his hands from her, effectively freeing her, but before she could react, he brought the hand that had been holding her by the hair back around to deliver a crushing backhand across the face.

He hit her so hard she went spinning, first into the wall and then to the ground. I let out a sharp cry of surprise and took a step forward, but he was suddenly almost _glaring_ at me, pinning me in place with his eyes. He stretched out the hand that still held the knife towards me and hissed through nearly-clenched teeth: "Oh, do you want me to leave her alone? _Fine_. You come with me and we leave _now._"

I froze, eyes darting from him to Pam, who was slowly sitting up from the ground, her hand clasped to the side of her face that he'd hit. She was staring at me, too, and despite everything, there was still no fear in her eyes—just that defiance, daring me to refuse, like she would have done.

I felt a pang in my chest. It wasn't because I was uncertain—on the contrary, it was because I knew _exactly _what I wanted to do. Even knowing the reprehensible prick he was, even as _furious _I was with him, I ached to go with him, to be _near _him, especially after my time away. The fact that he would leave Pam alone if I went with him cemented my decision.

I just didn't want to see the disappointment and anger in her eyes when I gave in.

So, like a coward, I looked away from her and ducked my head, hurrying past the both of them towards the door. I heard the Joker give a low chuckle as he turned away from her to join me, but nothing from Pam—which, in so many ways, was worse than her yelling profanities at me and condemning me for my stupidity.

I couldn't resist craning my neck to get one last look at her, but she was just sitting against the wall, head turned away from us. Then, the Joker seized me by the elbow, threw the door open, and pulled me out into the balmy late summer air, leaving the house open and Pam behind us.

Once we were a safe distance from her, I started returning to myself a little bit, helped along by the sharp pains in my bare feet. I realized that there were pieces of glass embedded in the soles, stabbing a little more with every step I took, but when I paused to try to do something about them, the Joker nearly yanked my arm out of the socket. It was no use arguing with him just then; I resolved to ignore the pain until I could actually address it and instead limped along with him as quickly as I could.

We didn't have far to go. There was a van parked just across the street from Pam's brownstone, and he steered me roughly around to the back, yanking the door open and all but throwing me inside. Cast off-balance by his forceful shove, I landed on my knees on the floor of the van, and as he climbed in behind me, I crawled fast to the back corner, trying to get some distance from him so I could _think._

He pulled the back doors closed, banged twice on the roof of the van, and then, as we started moving, slid down the side of the van to the floor, legs outstretched, deliberately crossing one ankle over the other and (also deliberately, I think) not looking at me.

Ironically enough, I was grateful for his inattention. It gave me a moment to collect myself, to put together whatever kind of arsenal I could for what was looking to be one hell of a confrontation.

I started by doing the easiest thing, the thing that required the least bravery: pulling the glass out of my feet. I'd started to bleed generously around the shards of the wine glass, so it was slippery work, and made the glass all but invisible—I had to brush my fingers over the bloody spots to feel for the fragments, inevitably provoking another sharp jolt of pain every time my fingertip brushed against one. A couple of pieces had gone in pretty deep after having been walked on, and I was torn between inwardly cursing the Joker and silently promising my soul to whoever would trade me a pair of tweezers.

It didn't help that my hands were shaking. I tried my hardest to ignore it, since acknowledging it would mean thinking about things I decidedly _didn't _want to think about just yet, but in time I'd dug out all of the glass, my hands were still shaking, and I had no other options.

Now that I didn't have the distraction of tending to my feet, I had to admit to myself that I was angry, hurt, and frankly, on the verge of tears. I'd been holding up well, but the scene I'd just witnessed had practically been pulled from my worst nightmares, and with two glasses of wine sitting badly on my stomach, I wasn't exactly in a great position to repress how I felt about it.

I had never wanted the Joker and Pam to meet. Now that it had happened, I knew that for sure—they were both strong, jealous personalities, neither of which would shy away from doing violence to the other given half the opportunity. The little scene back there proved that, and I was both furious with the Joker for hurting her and racked with guilt because _I'd_ let it happen.

_I should never have gone to her tonight. _I closed my eyes and tilted my head back against the wall of the van as a wave of self-loathing washed over me. _I should have known that no matter how inattentive he seemed he'd be tracking my moves; I shouldn't have gone to her right after barely saying two words to him. I'm such an idiot._

My self-flagellation session was interrupted by the sound of him drawing a slow breath in through his teeth, and I opened my eyes, immediately wary, knowing that he had to be making that noise for a reason. He still wasn't looking at me—in fact, his eyes were closed, giving the impression that there was nothing in that area of his face but empty pits of black. His hands were stretched out to mid-thigh, clasped together, and he was twiddling his thumbs.

I felt my anger spike, only exacerbated by my guilt and nearly erasing the fear. I opened my mouth to say something, but he beat me to it, speaking on the exhale.

"You _know, _Harley… there are _easier _ways to get my attention."

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to leap across the van and throttle him a little bit right then, and I commended myself for it. Unable to keep a certain edge from my voice, I repeated, "Your attention."

He opened his eyes, the whites flaring into place in contrast to the paint, and rolled them towards me. His only response was a slight smack of the lips, jaw shifting sideways as he rolled his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other. I felt the air catch in my chest, as if the smugness emanating from him was actively suffocating me. Then, I was speaking, my tone dripping with sarcasm—ill-advised, especially since I was out of practice being around him, but I was too mad to be smart.

"Right. Wanna offer me some suggestions? Because my _favorite _way to _get your attention _is to go to my best friend's house and assume you'll just show up uninvited and slap the shit out of her, but if you have something better, then by all means, I'm willing to give it a chance."

He blinked at me, slowly and deliberately, and it may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Well, you _did _go frrrolicking into the city with barely a word to _anyone._"

I cut through the bullshit, needing to know we were standing before I proceeded: "You think I deliberately went to Pam's house in hopes that you'd come after me."

"Well, _didn't _you?"

I stared at him, jaw gaping just a bit. When it became apparent to me that he was seriously asking me that question, the astonishment turned into an outright glare and I growled "_No_."

He put on a mocking frown. "Boy, did _I _misread the situation."

I didn't let it go—didn't give in with a laugh at the cartoonish expression or the blatant sarcasm the way I might have had we been arguing over anything else. Forcing my voice to stay level, not wanting this to escalate any further than it was already going to, I said, "Do you _honestly _think I'd knowingly put Pam in _any _form of danger for _any _reason? You think I'd intentionally lead you to her, knowing that you and I have fought about her in the past and knowing that you two would _definitely _clash?"

"Hey, what do I know?" he asked, giving me a careless shrug. I opened my mouth, outraged at his ongoing flippancy and ready to let him have it, but something surfaced in his eyes, a microscopic widening of the lids, a new alertness, and I hesitated for a split second. His voice filled the brief silence.

"Okay, _sure, _maybe I made a mistake. I _assumed… _y'know, that you'd _understand _that some things've changed while you were inside, that you'd know there'd be some things I'd want to _fill you in _on." He paused, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully at me, but by now I'd seen the danger in this line of discourse and kept my mouth shut. He licked his lips and went on: "So, _yeah, _I assumed that for you to _leave _before we'd had a chance to _catch up_… well, you must've wanted me to come _find _you. Why else would you go?"

I sat up straight from where I'd been slouching almost defensively in the back corner, feeling my jaw stiffen in stubborn fury, and before I knew it, I was telling him the truth: "Oh, _I don't know. _Maybe because I've been in Arkham Asylum for _three months_—all because of _you_, might I add—and my _first night out_, first thing you say to me is 'get me some coffee'?! Not even a 'hi, Harley, how were things in the loony bin? Oh, and by the way, sorry I abandoned you to the police way back in _May_.'"

He watched me deliver my brief, terse rant with unflappable calm, lips closed and slightly pursed, as if he was thoughtfully considering everything I had to say. As soon as I broke off to draw breath, he jumped in: "Well, I got you _out _again, didn't I?"

I needed to get away from him, or else I really _would _throttle him. I lurched to my feet, ignoring the blood, and, keeping to the opposite side of the van from him, crossed to the back doors and then banged twice on the roof. "_Stop_," I bellowed.

"Harley," drawled the Joker, finally ditching the obnoxious ingenuous act, even if it _was _in favor of barely-veiled annoyance. "_What _are you doing?"

I shot a quick glare at him over my shoulder. "Getting out of this van and away from _you_," I snapped, drumming my hand against the roof of the van again.

With a put-upon sigh, he unfolded his legs and rose to his feet. Tilting his shoulders back against the wall for balance in the moving vehicle and regarding me across the three feet of space between us, he said, "They're not gonna stop, you know. They know _I'm _not gonna jump out in the middle of the city, and if _you _get out and let any nearby cops get a nice peep into the back of the van, we're _all _done for."

When the Joker is your voice of reason, you know you're fucked. Still, I wasn't ready to surrender quietly to spending the remainder of the ride with him. "Fine," I mumbled. "I'll just _jump_. As long as it means I won't have to stay back _here_." I looked for the door handles, but it looked as though this van was designed without them on the inside. Frustrated, I drew back and slammed the heel of my hand into the doors.

The Joker exhaled, briefly, through his nose, then, one hand planted on the roof for support, he took a step towards me.

I leaped sideways immediately, flipping so that my back was jammed into the corner of the van formed by the back door and the wall opposite him, flinging out my hand to halt him. "_Don't_ you come near me," I barked. Dimly, I recognized that I'd spent the last three months half-dying to be close to him again, but my current turmoil drowned out the voice in me that was screaming for me to just let it all go and let him come to me. I didn't know what I wanted or what I was planning to do, but I knew that if I let him touch me, I'd lose any strength or resolution I had.

Surprisingly enough, he stopped moving towards me at my request. Creases appeared in the paint across his face as he frowned; he tilted his head and looked at me as if I was a puzzle he thought he'd figured out, only to find that the last piece didn't fit _anywhere. _After a brief beat of silence, he asked, "What's the _matter,_ Harley?"

It was the absolute worst thing he could have asked. I felt tears start in my eyes as all the hurts he'd caused me in that single night clamored for acknowledgement, and I bowed my head, clinging to the back door and refusing to meet his eyes. In my peripheral vision, I saw him take another step forward, then he was ducking his head, too, trying to get me to meet his gaze.

I twisted my head violently to the side, staring steadfastly at the front wall of the van, trying to pretend that I _didn't_ feel my nose reddening and tears start to slip from my eyes.

Another step, and he was right there in front of me. My eyes slipped shut as I resigned myself to the inevitable, and then his gloved hand was gripping my chin with his characteristic lack of gentleness and he was pulling my head back in line with his. "Look at me," he ordered, his tone hard and impatient, and I opened my eyes.

His face was just inches in front of mine, that halfway-puzzled frown now firmly affixed to it. My lips parted and I drew a nearly-gasping breath. I'd been deprived of all things Joker during my incarceration; that awful afternoon with the spliced-together recordings of his voice had been the only time I'd been exposed to any little bit of him, cheap imitation or not. Seeing him—the living, breathing, dramatically and frighteningly-painted _him_—up close and personal after so long alone… it just added more emotion and conflict to the fire already burning in my chest.

I managed to force myself to meet his eyes despite how ashamed I felt at the tears brimming in mine, and I whispered, trying to keep my voice from breaking, "I missed you… _so _much."

He must have expected something like that, because the frown disappeared, but the poker face it left in its wake didn't help me a bit. He released my chin, and I turned my head away again, slipping away through the gap between his shoulder and the wall of the van. He let me go, turning to watch me as I put a foot or so of distance between us before sliding down the wall to the van floor again.

Looking resolutely away from him, speaking as softly and as levelly as I possibly could while still being heard, I went on: "I didn't want you to see how hurt I was that… that _you _didn't seem to miss _me_. That's why I went to Pam's. I… I've been rotting away, totally _useless, _in the asylum for three months, and I didn't want the first thing I did when I came back to be… going on a sulking jag for a few days because you weren't—I don't know, _happy_ enough to see me. It was safer to just leave until I get over it than to sit around and risk you picking up on my _hurt feelings_." I spat the words, feeling personally betrayed by my heart, and pretended not to notice as he slowly stooped beside me, afraid to look at him. "You're right. I didn't think it through. I should have been stronger and smarter and—" I wiped at my wet face with stiff fingertips—"I should never have gone to Pam's until I talked to you; _really _talked to you."

We remained fixed in the tableau for a few seconds of silence, and then something touched my elbow. I glanced down to see that he was holding a folded handkerchief between his fingertips, offering, and in so many ways, it just made me feel _worse. _I took it, though, knowing that he'd probably read refusal as either defiance or further self-flagellation, and having admitted my weakness to him, I was _more_ than anxious to get over it and just be cheerful Harley again.

As I dabbed at my wet cheeks, still facing away from him, I heard him moving beside me, heard him release a quiet, almost resigned sigh as he sat on the floor next to me. I felt his leg slide into place beside mine, and the contact broke down the last of the barriers I'd hurriedly thrown up to protect myself from his indifference. Eyes still downcast, I turned towards him, slipping my legs over his and tucking myself into his side, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

He didn't push me away, like I mostly-expected him to. Instead, he curled an arm around my waist, rested his chin on the top of my head, and drawled, "Aaaaaall right, Harley," his tone lazily consoling, like he didn't much care whether I calmed down or not but knew he should probably at least offer some token reassurance.

I didn't care. For the first time since he'd stepped out of the shadows at Pam's place, my heart wasn't jumping and racing, I felt like I could _breathe. _The tears slowed, then stopped entirely, and I curled my palm around the other side of his warm neck, holding myself as closely to him as possible while he'd still let me.

And, as always when I was this near to him, there was a little voice chattering nervously in the back of my brain, reciting what would be sense if I was anyone else: _this is manipulation, he's manipulating you, gentleness like this is not in his nature, __**especially**__ not on the heels of a display of weakness like that. He's either lulling you into a false sense of security before he strikes or he needs you relaxed and malleable so you'll do what he wants you to do—don't give in—he hurt your dearest friend—__**how can you be so calm?**_

I lazily let the thoughts drift through my mind, but none of them concerned me—I'd figured out by now that if I just let that little voice rattle off its fears, then it would eventually grow quiet. I'd learned long ago that the Joker _always _had an ulterior motive to his kindnesses, but that often, his ulterior motive was compatible with _mine,_ so the best thing to do in any case was to kick back and enjoy it while it lasted. _I_ had confidence that it would all turn out well, even if my common sense didn't. At the moment, I was in a state of bliss, finally enjoying close physical contact with the man I loved for the first time in too long. I had no intention of ruining it.

* * *

**A/N** - Aww. Manipulative, toxic, and insidious as the Joker is, I can't deny I'm glad to let Harley finally get some cuddle time in. It's been so long for the poor girl. That said, someone remind me why we enjoy this tremendous douchebag.

I really enjoyed writing the Joker-Pam showdown, just for the record. I've always loved their conflict in canon, the way they don't even pretend that they're not battling over Harley- the irony of course being that they totally dismiss _her_ wishes in the process. It was so exciting to get to play with it here; there are so many interesting dynamics in the way of them relate to each other. Not fun for Harley, but when you're drawn to extreme, unyielding personalities, blowups happen. Nobody tell Pam this, but she and the Joker are TOTALLY cut out of the same cloth. She just presents as more stable.

So, last time around, some of you might have noted what happens when I post a chapter and decide I don't need to proofread it one last time before letting it go live. In the word document of this story I keep, I write profane stupid notes to myself beneath relevant paragraphs. With the last chapter, it was some shit about me being proud about dropping two Gordon Ramsay references in the same paragraph, and _I did not realize I left it in the copy I posted online till the next day_. If you guys were ever in any doubt that I have an absolutely idiotic sense of humor, you know it now.

...I loved writing this chapter, guys. It kind of hit all of my favorite things about writing Joker/Harley. I hope you all liked it, too. Okay, let's see- response to guest reviewer Emma is going up on the blog, as will the chapter song (which is a particular favorite Joker/Harley tune of mine) and I'll also see about responding to some of the questions you guys asked on the blog in time. Thank you for reading and reviewing- you guys came out in FORCE this time around, seriously, like three of you ninjaed in and left new reviews while I was working on writing review responses (I'm writing yours just as soon as I post this, I swear). Thank you so much!


	10. let's tessellate

**Chapter Nine**

**let's tessellate**

_Bite chunks out of me  
You're a shark and I'm swimming  
My heart still thumps as I bleed  
And all your friends come sniffing_

**-Alt-J, Tessellate**

After several long minutes of the two of us just lazily leaning into one another, he lifted his chin from my head. After a beat, I heard him sniff, then, suddenly: "Did you do something to your hair?"

Oddly enough, it was that abrupt, halfway-baffled question that finally got me. I laughed, tilting my head back to see him frowning down at me. "They don't exactly provide dye at the asylum, as you well know. I figured that since I had to do something about my roots anyway, I might as well try something new." When his frown didn't disappear, I faltered, dropping my eyes for just a moment before meeting his gaze again and asking timidly, "Is it okay?"

His expression cleared suddenly, as if he was waking from a daydream, and he gave me a quick, roguish smile. "_Perfect_," he said emphatically. I beamed at him, and then the van stopped and the driver killed the engine. "Ahh," he said, detaching my hand from his neck almost as an afterthought and knocking my legs off of his before standing up. I was quick to follow, but in the few minutes spent sitting there with him I'd forgotten about my tender soles—I winced as I put pressure on a particularly deep cut and grabbed his arm instinctively for balance.

The Joker frowned and glanced down at my bloodied feet as the back doors were thrown open and immediately 'tsked' at me. "Oh, _no_, Harley—we can't have you tracking _blood _all over the nice new hideout, _can _we?"

If I didn't already feel as if I'd been profoundly needy enough for one day, I might have humorously shot back that _blood _on the hideout floors was and always would be the _least _of our worries, but as it was, I didn't see myself in a position to argue, at least till I'd recovered somewhat from the turmoil of the night. I was biting my lip, looking down at my bloodied feet and wishing I'd thought to put my boots back on after my shower, so I didn't see the Joker move. Next thing I knew, I was being swept up, and I gave a brief yelp of surprise before locking an arm around his shoulders—it had been a while, but I still remembered his tendency to _drop _unsuspecting _girlfriends _just for shits and giggles.

He appeared to have no intention of doing it then, though, jumping from the back of the van, keeping his balance perfectly, and starting briskly towards the house as soon as we were on solid ground, me cradled effortlessly against his chest.

_This isn't affection or altruism, you know, _muttered that nervous little voice in the back of my head. _He's doing this for the henchmen's benefit. He must need them to respect you, or at least your connection to him._

And again, I ignored it. My feet stung, I was back in my boyfriend's arms—literally—which is where I'd wanted to be for _months, _and I wasn't going to let the little part of my mind that was always trying to assign motive to his every little action ruin it for me. I leaned my head against his shoulder and enjoyed feeling weightless for once.

The henchmen who had driven the van beat us to the building, opening the door and then stepping aside, and the Joker ignored them as he passed into the house with me. He said nothing to anyone as he crossed through the crowded rec room, and I played the part I imagined I was supposed to play, legs dangling, barely taking notice of my surroundings (and certainly none of the henchmen pretending not to stare and obviously wondering just what the hell had happened that resulted in the scene they were seeing) and absorbed completely by him.

Well. _Almost _completely. I did spot Ace right before we reached the staircase, staring with a hint of a scowl, and if I'd felt he warranted such attention, I'd have gloated at him. As it was, I just narrowed my eyes slightly, then the Joker took us upstairs.

Back in his room, he planted one knee on the mattress and let me drop, ducking out from under my arm and rising again before I could reach for him. I followed him questioningly with my eyes, but he just halfway glanced over his shoulder as he crossed the room to his desk and said, casually but with unmistakable steel in his voice: "Go to _sleep_, Harley. We've got a _lot_ to do, but it'll wait till tomorrow_._"

_I don't exactly feel like sleeping, _I thought, but even as the rebellious idea crossed my mind, I realized how genuinely _tired _I was. I'd been awake since seven o'clock in the morning; it was now probably two o'clock the next night, and it had been one hell of a day.

I curled up, noting as I dragged my feet towards me that the Joker apparently didn't give a shit about our sheets (_because he couldn't give two shits about bloodstains and his excuse about the floor was bullshit_) and resolving to wash them out myself the next day. I turned on my side, facing the desk, where he'd taken a seat, his profile to me and lit by the single lit lamp in the room. Pillowing my head on my hand, I watched him until my eyes grew much too heavy to hold open and sleep dragged me under.

Sometime later, I opened my eyes and it was dark. I would have thought that I'd be a bit more confused as to my surroundings after _not _waking up in the Asylum for the first time in months, but even in the dark, I could feel the thick mattress beneath me, smell the smells I associated with freedom, and I knew exactly where I was.

I felt the mattress shift beside me and knew why I'd awoken—he'd finally switched off the light and joined me. At some point I'd rolled over to the other side of the bed, _my _side, facing the wall with my back to him, and I stayed there as he settled in, suddenly too nervous to do something as simple as roll over and curl up against him.

Defenses down, still partially asleep, all I could think was _you have no right to touch him; if he wanted you close he'd have pulled you to him already_—oh, but I _wanted _to, suddenly feeling every second I'd spent apart from him as acutely as if I was still locked up. He lay next to me, completely still, and I hated myself for my inability to just _roll over, _but the few inches between us felt like miles.

The mattress suddenly trembled as he shifted his weight. A second later, I felt the barest touch at my shoulder—barely there, possibly even a ghost conjured by wishful thinking, but it was enough to break through my uncertainty and cowardice. As immediately as if he'd yanked at me, I turned over until I was nestled against his bare side, then decided that wasn't good enough. In one more quick, fluid move, I was atop him, gripping at his waist with my thighs, clinging to his shoulders, and pressing my chest hard against his, needing the closeness.

His fingertips dragged roughly along my hips before catching in the hem of my shirt, and obligingly, I yielded for just a moment, sitting up just long enough for him to drag the shirt over my head and away from my arms, then I was pushing back against him, every inch of my skin on fire in response to the direct contact with him after _much _too long.

His hands continued their path upwards, tracing along my sides and leaving trails of electric sensation in their wake, landing on the heavy scar tissue in the shape of diamonds on both of my arms and pressing into it almost convulsively for a second, fingernails cutting, then the bruising fingers stretched out, gripped my upper arms hard, and his body beneath me surged, prompting a surprised little yelp from me as I suddenly found myself on my back, being borne down into the mattress by his weight.

Before I could do anything, his mouth was on mine, his hands on my shoulders, thumbs digging against either side of my clavicle and his elbows pressed hard into the insides of mine. Every inch of me was being covered, leaned on, or dug into by some part of him, and as his teeth cut against my lower lip, I suddenly got the distinct impression that he was trying to devour me, to absorb me.

I responded. With an adrenaline-fueled surge of strength, I ripped my arms out from beneath the weight of his bony elbows—and immediately locked them around his shoulders, simultaneously freeing my legs and wrapping them around his waist. I tightened my muscles and made use of gravity to pull him as closely against me as was perhaps humanly possible, kissing him back with a ferocity that I could feel made him grin for a half-second. I put in a Herculean effort, pressing and pulling our bodies together as if with enough force I could just meld with him in the dark, would never have to be away from him ever again, until the self-inflicted pressure on my chest made me break away from his mouth and turn my head to gasp for breath.

He took advantage of the freshly-exposed skin, pressing his nose against my neck just about the shoulder and setting the nerve endings on fire with the touch before delivering a mean bite that made me stop breathing for a moment, despite my desperate need for air.

He was suddenly leaning back, encountering temporary resistance in the form of my grip on his shoulders, but he'd always been stronger, and his last three months of activity compared to my wasting away at Arkham made it no contest. He broke my grip, and I let my arms fall open, feeling the emptiness as his weight lifted from my torso. I could breathe again, but I craved his touch so badly that the loss of contact scarcely seemed worth it.

Perched on his forearms, he looked down on me, tilting his head slightly as he watched me take heaving, much-needed breaths. After a few seconds of just watching me recover, he flashed me a grin that would have frightened me if I wasn't pretty sure what it meant. "Welcome _back_, Harley," he said, then pounced again.

That was the last thing either of us said for quite a while.

* * *

After staying awake half the night on top of the loaded day I'd had before it, I was planning to sleep well into the afternoon, catching up on my rest and recovering some before starting the potentially complicated process of re-integrating myself into the operation.

The Joker had other ideas.

I didn't know how long I'd been asleep when something heavy fell onto the mattress beside me, but even before I cracked an eye open to see what it was, I could tell I hadn't slept nearly long enough.

The "something heavy" turned out to be the Joker, stretched out on his side next to me, and even as I registered that he looked practically _happy_—reason enough to be wary—he was crooning at me: "Wakey, _wakey,_ Harley!" I immediately started glowering at him, but given that only half of my face was visible, the other half safely buried in the pillow, it probably didn't have much effect. He certainly didn't seem to think so, since he went on talking: "It's a _big _day today, lots to do. Time to get up." Then, he actually leaned forward and pressed his mouth against my cheek, making a noisy "_mwah_" unforgivably close to my ear.

In response, I hid my entire face in the pillow, partly to hide the dumb smile that crept over my face at the mark of affection but mostly because I was stupid-tired, and grumbled, "_You're _the one that kept me up, _you _can deal with me catching up on my sleep before we do _anything_"—although it probably sounded more like "Mmph mph mmmph mmph _mphhh_." I felt him sit up beside me, and when he didn't say anything for a moment, I started to worry just a little bit.

I should have worried more. A second later, and something disgustingly warm and wet was poking into my ear.

I reeled up from the bed as if he'd just dumped a bucket of cold water on me—which, I was willing to admit, probably would have been preferable—and turned a furious glare at him (by that point, wisely, he was halfway across the room, unfortunately out of my immediate range). "Did you just give me a _wet willy_?" I shrieked.

His only response was a howling, teeth-baring cackle that nearly drowned out my outrage. "Ugh, ugh, _ugh_," I growled as I seized the sheets and tried to clean the inside of my ear, as if I could get rid of that repulsive feeling.

The Joker recovered before I did, and, still chuckling a little, made his way to the door. He paused just before leaving the room, turning and adding as an afterthought, "You go back to sleep, and I'm throwing you on the _floor _and turning the mattress over on _top _of you. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled mutinously, but it was enough for him. He turned and left the room, and I sighed and stopped kidding myself—the effects of the wet willy were far more psychological than physical; I wasn't going to be able to recover just by scrubbing at my ear with the sheets. I resigned myself to the fact that I was apparently up for the day, and with that acceptance, a large to-do list immediately popped into my head.

First, I stripped the sheets off of the bed and padded towards the closed door on the opposite side of the room, which I correctly surmised was a bathroom. I showered first, making use of the bare minimum of toiletries that furnished the room (i.e. a bar of soap) even while making an exasperated mental note to go out and buy at least some _shampoo_. Afterwards, I took the sheets, found all of the little blood spots and smears from my no-longer-bleeding feet, and used the sink, the soap, and elbow grease to scrub them out. I hung the sheets over the shower rod and then returned to the bedroom.

There, I ran into a problem. During my brief search of the area the night before, I hadn't discovered any of my clothes, and I hadn't thought to ask the Joker about them before they disappeared. After a moment spent looking around, my gaze fell on an unfolded pile of his clothes shoved off to the side, and I shrugged. _In a pinch…_

I found a white-and-lavender patterned shirt that smelled clean and buttoned it on. Given that he was so much taller than me and wore his shirts neatly tucked in, the hem fell nearly to my knees, and I glanced over at my discarded, too-long jeans for a moment before deciding against putting them on underneath. There were multiple benefits to going out among the henchmen in just the shirt. Primarily, it would be useful in helping me distinguish between the smart henchmen and the idiots who let their eyes linger for a beat too long. Nearly as importantly, though, my appearance would serve as a statement of joint femininity and dominance to the henchmen—simply put, it would make it abundantly clear that I was both a woman and was not subject to any of their bullshit, a message I thought was important to send, especially if Ace's attitude indicated the general pattern of thought among them.

Plus, I'd take any excuse I could find to not have to wear pants.

Decision made, I exited the room into the lazily buzzing hive of the hideout. There was a very specific atmosphere hanging over the place—I picked up on it as I moseyed down the broken staircase. There was excitement and energy, but it was restrained—the movements below were quiet and far between.

I emerged in the kitchen area, looking through to the rec room to see that the number of henchman had diminished by roughly two-thirds—Ace was among those absent, much to my relief. The remaining guys were stretched out on chairs, couches, and the floor, clustered quietly around a fuzzy TV. I got the distinct impression that they were waiting for something, which only strengthened my suspicion that today was significant.

The only visible henchman who _wasn't _watching TV was George, who was sitting at the table in the kitchen, turned away from the entry I'd just come through, newspaper open in front of him. I stood uncertainly just inside the doorway, feeling the natural urge to go over and sit with him instead of in the living room with the group of _true _strangers. I immediately decided against acting on the impulse, reminding myself of my resolution to avoid playing favorites and risk getting too close to any of the henchmen.

And then I decided to void that decision, because I knew a thing or two about self-fulfilling prophecies and if I decided to actively avoid George on the basis that I might like him too much, it would certainly have more of an effect on my brain than casually hanging out with him from time to time. I crossed the kitchen, remembering that I'd spotted some cereal during my search of the cabinets the night before. Someone had taken it upon themselves to buy a huge box of Lucky Charms. I was optimistic, but not truly impressed until I opened the battered old fridge and found a gallon of milk that was actually _fresh_.

"Someone's on the ball," I murmured approvingly.

George's paper rattled, and I glanced over my shoulder at him, part of me hoping that he'd be staring at my largely-exposed legs, therefore giving me an excuse to dislike him, but he just turned the page of the paper and resumed reading. I checked the time—it was shortly after noon, meaning I'd gotten about six hours asleep (not enough, given how much had happened within the previous twenty-four hours)—then took my cereal over to the table, curling up in the chair to his right before glancing again into the rec room to see what the guys were watching.

It was Mary Poppins—the _supercalifragilisticexpialidocious _scene, to be precise. After a second spent trying to smother a smile at the sight of this big, rough-looking, tattooed bunch of adult men lounging around and watching Julie Andrews, I called over to them: "Not to ruin the fun, guys, but you might want to change the channel."

Most of them looked over at me. Most of them looked taken-aback. Several stared (not at my face) several others looked abruptly back at the television, and two looked me in the eye. One of these, a large black guy, about thirty years old with tattoos visible on his arms, asked "Oh, yeah? Why's that?" His tone was challenging, but not hostile.

"Hey, it's completely your decision, but I _don't _think the Joker likes Julie Andrews," I told him frankly.

A few of the other guys who had looked away from me were looking back. Assured of their attention, I went on: "About five months ago, we were staying in this… old burned out club. We had a TV but it was busted-up and the reception is shitty, so we only got one channel, and one day that channel was playing The Sound of Music. So the guys start watching, because what the hell, right? And they were getting pretty into it, but then the Joker comes back from running some errand. He walks in, takes one look at Julie Andrews singing 'I Have Confidence,' and shoots the TV. Twice."

Most of them looked skeptical. George, without looking up from his paper, snorted. I shrugged. "You guys do what you want, but if you want to keep the TV… maybe find something that doesn't feature Julie Andrews. Unless it's the _Love to Laugh _scene from this movie, but no promises."

There was some murmuring, the guy who'd addressed me said "Thanks for the heads-up," and after a minute, _Dumb and Dumber _was playing.

"Oh, yeah," I said, half into my cereal bowl. "_Way_ better." From what little evidence I had, I surmised that the Joker, if not directly _fond _of Jim Carrey (although I had my suspicions), was at the very least willing to put up with him.

After watching the scene where Lloyd and Harry eat some ill-advised hot peppers, I sneaked a glance at George. He appeared unruffled, both by me and the delightful idiocy blaring from the television, and seemed entirely focused on his paper. Not for the first time, I wondered what he was doing here—he certainly wasn't cut from the same cloth as the rest of the guys, and he didn't seem too interested in trying to bond with or buddy up to them, either.

Which reminded me. "Thanks for last night, by the way."

The paper folded at the corner, revealing a single, inexpressive blue eye. "For calling Ace off," I clarified, then frowned, adding, "Though… I guess for providing me with a car, too." My frown deepened as I realized that the car had been left parked on a street outside of Pam's place, and I silently prayed he wouldn't ask me about it.

He didn't, nor did he acknowledge my thanks. Instead, he directed his gaze towards my cereal, and as he turned a page, he said in a gravelly monotone, "You know that stuff's just sugar and weevils, right?"

I glanced down at my bowl—the dye on the marshmallows had dyed the milk a murky purple, and the remaining cereal had gone soggy. Which was how I liked it, but still… "Weevils?"

"Bugs get in the machinery, he said, eyes trailed on the paper again. "Get ground up and blended in with all the rest of it."

"You're making that up."

I saw the barest twitch of a smile lifting the left corner of his mouth, the only indicator that he was enjoying this conversation even just a little bit. "Check the box if you don't believe me. Two grams of protein per serving. You think that protein's comin' from, what, the wheat or the corn syrup?"

I looked dubiously at him, glanced down at my bowl, then surreptitiously pushed the bowl a few inches away from me. George had been staring at his paper the whole time, but I swore I saw that slight lift to his mouth that _could _have been a smile grow more pronounced.

A door opened in the front of the house. I recognized the Joker's footsteps even before I read the new, universal tenseness in the atmosphere, then he came scuffing into the room, followed by a big henchman carrying a huge wooden crate. He glanced around, seeming not to notice that all of the henchmen were on alert, watching him, awaiting instruction, and his eyes finally landed on me. He pointed. "You. Follow us."

I was slipping out of my chair before he even finished the order, and he led the procession up the steps—first, the Joker, taking the cracked stairs two at a time, then the big henchman, awkwardly wrangling the crate, and lastly, me, trotting along to bring up the rear. The Joker led us all the way to his bedroom, and by the time I cleared the doorway, the henchman was setting the crate on the ground with a relieved sigh.

"Olaf, out. Harley, stay."

_The henchman's name is Olaf_? I didn't say anything, instead studying him as he wiped his forehead on the back of his forearm, and by the time he passed me on the way out, I'd decided that it fit him.

The Joker took no notice of him, was reaching up to the jutting ledge above the big blacked-out window, so I took it upon myself to close the door behind Olaf. When I turned back, J had retrieved a crowbar from the ledge, and I discreetly put my back to the corner and watched him carefully.

He didn't seem to notice. He took the crowbar to the hinges of the crate and wedged them out of the splintered wood, making quick work of the lid. By then, reassured that the crowbar wasn't meant for me, I'd drifted forward curiously, and as he pried the top from the crate, I peeked inside—and laughed aloud out of sheer delight.

"I _knew _it!" I crowed, bumping him aside so I could dig out the open boxes holding pounds upon pounds of my clothing and personal effects.

He tossed the crowbar carelessly aside, and as it clanged loudly to the floor, he ran a hand over his rumpled hair, smoothing it out of his face. "Boxed 'em up when we moved hideouts. They were stored at a unit in, uh, West Chelsea. We keep it as… more _permanent _space."

I found my favorite revolver padded in with my carelessly-packed skirts and, scooping it up, I flitted over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "_Thank _you!"

He grimaced and detangled himself from my arms. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled rapidly. "Look, you've got _some _time to settle in, but not _much. _Big game's about to start."

I paused, letting a favored pair of jeans fall from my hands back into the crate. _Here it is, _said that annoyingly fearful voice in the back of my head, _the reason you're not still rotting in Arkham. _"Big game," I repeated questioningly.

He regarded me, lips drawn pensively together, then he adjusted the lapels of his coat, starting across the room. "Um—yeah. I mean—I mean, I don't _know,_" he admitted, seating himself on the bed facing me, "but, uh, some things have happened while you were inside. _Interesting _things."

I braced my hands on the top of the crate and leaned into them. "You gonna fill me in, or am I flying into this blind?"

He actually pulled his gleaming pocket watch from his vest and checked the time before he bothered to respond to my [rhetorical] question. "I can spare a few minutes to fill you in, _suuure_."

I let out a short huff, half-amused and half-annoyed, and was promptly disregarded as he rested his elbows atop his knees and leaned forward to address me: "You caught up on your _Criminal Empires in Gotham _history and current affairs?"

"I'm at least three months out of date, and most of what I know, I learned from either you or the news, so you tell me."

"So much for the Arkham rumor mill," he muttered with a resigned sigh and head-shake. "Well—we'll keep it simple, just cover the last two years. So: Carmine Falcone, if not totally uncontested, was at least the most unquestionably _powerful_. That is, till he lost his _marbles_—ah, for real, doll, not like you and me," he added helpfully. I snorted and skirted around the crate, going to settle on the floor between his legs—if we were talking about things that happened two years ago, I should probably get comfortable.

The Joker moved in unison with me, sitting up straighter and pulling his elbows back so I could drape one arm over his knee, and one hand dropped absently to my head, gripping it from behind and tilting it backwards so that my face was turned up to his. Peering down at me, eyes gleaming, he continued the history lesson: "His, ah, _retirement _prompted a… mad _scramble _for power, all the little mob families practically _trampling _each other to snatch up as many pieces of his operation as they could_; _it was all kind of… _hilarious_, really."

"This was right as you were coming up?" I asked, mostly to confirm the shaky timeline I'd pieced together during my time with him.

In response, he tightened his fingers painfully in my hair, and as I inhaled with a hiss at the sudden pain, he said, "Teacher says save questions for the _end_, got it?" I nodded even though the movement put even more strain on my scalp, because I knew that to say anything else at this point was to invite more pain. He nodded back, a touch of mocking to the motion, and went on.

"So. Carmine's gone. Power's divided all over the city, but the ma_jor_ity of it ends up in the hands of three men. You've got Maroni—slick Italian, traditionalist, lot of support because, well, this _is _the _mafia. _Then there was _Gambol_, the fight-your-way-from-the-gutter type, got where he with brute force and a _lot _of elbow grease… waste of energy _and _boring, if you ask me, but hey. Different strokes. Last—the Chechen. _Just _the Chechen. He was from—well, guess."

A tap at the back of my head signaled that it would be okay to speak, so I obliged: "Well, if I _had _to take a stab at it, I'd say Chechnya."

"And people say high school geography is a waste of time," he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, and I giggled out loud, then reminded myself that I was supposed to be _listening_. I bit down on his knee to suppress my laughter, and he gave no sign of objecting—didn't react at all, really, aside from slightly tightening his grip on my hair and clearing his throat.

"Anyway. Just as _soon _as we're _getting _somewhere, as soon as clear battle lines are being drawn, these guys up and decide to… _band together._ Common enemy, you see. So, me being the, uh, _charitable _guy I am, I offered my _unique _talents to them—they give me their money, and I _kill _the Batman."

He paused there, made a face, and twirled his free hand in the air as if hunting for the perfect phrasing. After a second, he shrugged twitchily and gave up. "Well. One thing led to _another, _and before you know it… uh, Gambol and the Chechen are… _unfortunately _out of the game, and wouldn't you know it, Maroni got himself in a car accident that nearly killed him." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "He was in _no _shape to run the city, that was for sure. This was… mmm, a little less than a _year _ago."

_Right around the time you were being committed to Arkham, _I thought, narrowing my eyes ever-so-slightly at him. He definitely wasn't telling me the whole story, but I wasn't going to interrupt again.

"As you can imagine, ever since then, things have been a little… mm… chaotic. With no strong—or _willing_—candidate for the criminal _throne,_ so to speak, Gotham's criminal underworld has just been staggering along the best it can." He fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, and I saw it go distant as he murmured, with no tone except perhaps one of slight interest: "Until recently."

I sat up a bit straighter, brow furrowing slightly in worry. _What happened recently?_ I was dying to ask, and when he just continued to stare at the wall for another moment, I nearly did. Fortunately, he snapped out of it before I found out just what he'd do if I asked another question against instruction.

Returning his eyes to me, he asked a question. "Have you ever heard of _Oswald Cobblepot_?"

I frowned deeper. "Oswald… no."

"Yeah," he said resignedly, and slowly worked his fingers out of my hair. "Neither has anyone else." Both hands freed again, he reached down to grab my upper arms and lifted me to my feet, pulling me closer to stand between his knees before going on. "But he's been slowly accumulating turf over the past few months, he's put together a _very _respectable outfit, all things considered, and he's invited us for _cocktails_ a little later today."

That last one took a second to process. Once it got through, surprise made me say the first thing to cross my mind without regard for the potential consequences: "You're planning on _going_?"

Fortunately, apparently it was the perfect time for Q&A. J rubbed my upper arms briskly, lingering on the fabric covering the diamond scars for a moment before looking mischievously up at me. "_We're _planning on going," he corrected me.

It struck me that I was _not _wearing much in the way of clothing and that I was standing intimately close to him, so the fact that I dismissed that tempting realization right away bore testament to how seriously I was taking the Cobblepot thing. Frowning down at him, I said, "You can't see any way in which this little date could go _horribly _wrong?"

"Oh, about a dozen," he assured me.

"So you _do _realize that if Cobblepot's looking to be criminal kingpin, you, as Gotham's resident terror threat and general baddest of the _bad guys,_ are standing in the way of that goal and the easiest way for him to get around that is to kill you?"

"Abso_lute_ly."

"Yet you're _still _planning to meet with him?"

"_We're _still planning to meet with him." He tsked at me. "Harley, sometimes I feel like you just don't _listen._"

I frowned, the precise phrasing he'd been using finally sinking through. "Wait. You said he invited _us? _Like, asked _me _in particular?"

"_Now _she's getting it."

"When'd you get this invitation?"

He watched me, head slightly tilted, measuring my reaction as he said deliberately, "Last night. Minutes before I got back to the hideout."

I blinked. "I'd only been out of the asylum for like, an hour at that point. I'm willing to be not even the cops knew; how did…?"

"That's _one _of the many reasons I've accepted _Oswald's _invitation. He's clearly well-sourced, and he's paying _attention—_uh, specifically to _us. _I'd like to know _why._"

I shook my head, but if the Joker had already thought things through and was comfortable with the idea, then I'd accompany him, however reluctantly. "Okay," I sighed, making sure that my tone conveyed the fact that I thought this was a _bad _idea.

He cocked his head and flashed me a grin. "Any more questions?"

I studied him for a second, then, conscious that the tiny smile growing on my face was going to give me away any second, I blurted, "What, _exactly,_ was the extent of your involvement in the deaths of Maroni, Gambol, and the Chechen?"

"Ah, ah, ah!" he, said, springing to his feet and planting an index finger against my lips. "_First_—Maroni's not _dead _yet_,_ and _second_—let's agree that the _shrink talk _belongs back at Arkham, hmm?"

"You took them _all _down, didn't you," I said against his finger, now openly grinning.

I was looking straight into his eyes, so I could see the amusement forming without his permission just before he ducked his head, pretending that he'd been planning all along to pick up my hand and press his mouth against the inside of my wrist. By the time he pulled back, the smile was nowhere to be seen. "Pick something to wear," he instructed me. "Something a little, er, _dressier _than usual—this is a social call, not business, after all—but something that'll go with your _usual_ makeup. Got it?"

"My boyfriend's the toughest, scariest guy in the _whole _city," I said in lieu of answer, still grinning at him. His mouth twitched, and, apparently realizing that I wasn't going to let it go, he reached out, grabbed my shoulders, and physically turned me around.

"_Go._"

I went.

* * *

**A/N** - Mm-hmm, damn straight I wasn't going to miss the opportunity to get Harley laid for the first time in months, poor woman. And henchman hangouts! Call me a sap, but I like writing everyone getting along, no matter how short-lived it might turn out to be.

Not much in the way of author's notes today, except to boast that I spelled _supercalifragilisticexpialidocious_ right on the first attempt. Totally booked with brother's wedding stuff, trying to hurry and get this out to you guys before I lose any semblance of all free time, heh. On that note, sorry if the responses are a little stilted or disorganized! Concentration is not a thing that's happening very well right now for me, so that's my bad.

...anyone ready to meet Oswald? We're gonna hang out with him some next chapter. Finally, the ball's rolling. I'll update as soon as I've had some time to recover from this whole shitstorm, in the meantime let me know what you think! Thanks for reading and reviewing, guys. You keep me sane.


	11. your double diamond disposition

**Chapter Ten**

**your double diamond disposition**

_I saw you reel them in for miles  
Each captivated crooked smile._

**-Timber Timbre, **_**Magic Arrow**_

Two hours later, we were zipping through the Diamond District in Midtown Gotham, on our way to meet Gotham's newest crime lord.

Mindful of George's warning the night before, I'd expressed some misgiving about leaving the hideout in the daytime, but the Joker had dismissed my concerns with an irritated gesture. As it turned out, we were picked up right at the back door by a town car with dark-tinted windows—for a moment, I was taken off-guard, since our usual mode of travel was Windowless Van. For one wild half-second, I thought the car was sent by Cobblepot, who would necessarily then have to know the location of the hideout, but I dismissed the thought even before I climbed into the car and saw that George was driving. J would never be so careless.

…well, he _might_, but not with the location of our headquarters. Appropriately isolated living and working quarters were hard to find.

It was obvious given the car and the instructions for how I should dress that the Joker was going for a very specific sort of presentation, which only confused and worried me more. He wasn't exactly a play-along kind of guy—it was much more like him to disregard the Powers That Currently Be, whoever they were, and employ his usual _smash-em-up_ approach with everything. From where I sat, it meant that he was either playing his own invisible game or that this Cobblepot figure was powerful enough to necessitate some making-nice.

I hoped desperately it was the former, but after a few glances at him, I decided not to ask. He had a very specific expression on his face—even after all these weeks, I recognized the alert but distant eyes, slightly clenched jaw, and pursed lips. He was thinking. It would be best not to bother him, so I sat back and stayed quiet the whole ride.

He'd chosen to present himself as what I'd started to call Classic Joker—heavy purple greatcoat, emerald-green vest, tailored purple pants, patterned dress shirt underneath—this time lilac paisley. The dress shirt could vary for Classic Joker, as long as it stayed in the neighborhood of blue, but everything else stayed the same. When he was dealing with repeat customers, he tended to switch up his colors and patterns, but for first-time meetings, he tended to go with the outfit everyone knew and loved. Well, _knew_, at least.

On my end, keeping in mind that the Joker had asked for _dressier than usual, _my usual red-and-black flexible corset, tulle skirt, and leggings combo was out. Instead, I'd ended up choosing a black lace cocktail dress, and I couldn't resist pairing it with black motorcycle ankle boots without a heel. J could say it was a _social occasion _all he wanted, but I wasn't going to get stuck in six inch heels when I needed to run for my life—I'd leave that to stronger women. The sleeveless dress exposed the distinct diamond scars on my skin, and with the messy blonde pigtails and neatly-done harlequin makeup to match and contrast the Joker's aggressively smeared greasepaint, I looked like classic Harley Quinn, playing into the specificity of Cobblepot's invitation. He wanted me? Fine. Here I came.

The silent ride suddenly ended as George pulled into a back alley in the thick of the district, and I pulled myself from thought, straightening my skirt and meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"All off for the Iceberg Lounge," he said dryly. "Back exit, as requested."

_Iceberg Lounge?_ I mouthed, but the Joker was already exiting the car, and after a quick, apologetic "Thanks!" to George, I followed, not wanting to be left behind.

The henchmen in the following van had jumped out as well—just three in clown masks, which I thought was generous of the Joker given that we were, at worst, walking into a trap. He didn't seem worried, though, so I tried not to stress out too much. I couldn't help pressing my frilly skirt against my outer right thigh, though, reassuring myself that the holster holding my second favorite gun, a Beretta, was still secure. Revolvers were fun, but if it came to a shootout, I didn't want to have to reload every six shots. I was carrying two extra magazines in my clutch. No one could say I wasn't prepared, though in my opinion, it wasn't prepared enough. Still, there was only so much weaponry you could carry with you on a semi-formal outing.

The back door had been propped open—_such consideration_—and the Joker waved two of the henchmen through. He was on their heels as soon as they entered, and I tailed him just as closely, with the last henchman bringing up the rear. I was grateful I'd gone with the boots instead of heels—we entered immediately into a cramped kitchen crowded with shouting people, making navigation a bit tricky. Going by the way that none of them reacted other than shooting us quick, startled glances, they were expecting us, but we swept along so quickly that I couldn't really get a grasp of the general atmosphere.

The kitchen gave way to what I supposed was the Iceberg Lounge proper—and, looking at it, it was easy to see that _lounge_ was just code for _nightclub_, a pretense at elegance so that the owner could charge double on drinks. Sure, it was a bit cleaner and more stylish than the places I'd frequented in my college years, shadowy and lit exclusively with blue and white lights, the dance floor was huge, and the bar was a beacon of glass and light, but still—it was a dressed-up nightclub, and it would be empty and quiet for a few more hours at least.

The Joker glanced over his shoulder at me. I gave him a slight smirk, which he returned, and then someone was approaching us and we both directed our attention forwards.

The thin, nervous-looking man with shining blonde hair and wearing the well-fitting tailcoat clearly wasn't getting paid enough. He started out bravely, "Ah, you must be…" but then trailed off when fixed with five impassive stares, only two of which were coming from actual human faces (not that the human faces were much more reassuring, at least not in the Joker's face). I'd been on the other end of the clown-mask-clown-boss stare combination. It was tough. I felt a fleeting touch of sympathy for him, but it was gone by the time he visibly collected himself and continued as if he'd never stumbled in the first place: "Mr. Cobblepot has been expecting you. Please, follow me." He didn't look particularly thrilled at the prospect of turning his back to us—really, looked like he'd taken a great big bite out of a lemon—but damned if he didn't do it anyway, even resisting the temptation to look behind him every two seconds to make sure we weren't going to murder him in the dark.

_Okay, so loyal help, or at the very least, well-trained, _I noted as we followed him across the club in an uncharacteristically quiet little procession. _That could prove difficult if things get bad. _Then I shook it off and firmly reminded myself that we weren't at war with Cobblepot.

_Not yet, _whispered that voice in my head. As a result, I was scowling as we were taken through a short, dark hallway and led into the private room at the end.

The old-fashioned mahogany-and-red-velvet decor, a complete contrast to the minimalist, modern design of the club, made it apparent that this wasn't simply some room set aside for private sessions. I was certain that this was Oswald Cobblepot's office, and that the figure rising from behind the desk to greet us was the man himself.

I took a good look at him, trying to gauge exactly who we were dealing with. He was a little past middle age and very lightly-colored, with rather pasty skin, watery blue eyes, and white blonde hair. He was hardly obese, but he was definitely carrying some extra weight, especially in the belly. Still, it was clear that he took efforts with his appearance—his hair was neatly combed, his face was clean-shaven, and he wore a tuxedo: white jacket, white shirt, black pants, crisp and pressed.

As I looked at him, only one thought sprang readily to mind: _This guy? __**This**__ guy's running half of Gotham? He looks like a liberal mayoral candidate._

As if he could read my mind, the Joker glanced back at me again. Naturally, he wasn't going to betray any of his thoughts with any discernible facial expression, but I saw the wild glint in his eye and knew from the look of it that the thoughts going through his mind were similar, if not identical, to mine. I maintained my stoic face, telling myself it would be bad to make enemies right out of the gate by getting the giggles before a word was even said, but it was hard.

"Ah, at last," said our host, coming around the desk with his hands extended and a true politician's smile on his face, and like a politician, he ignored the two henchmen in the lead, going directly to the Joker and holding out his hand. "The Joker, is it? Or would you prefer _Mr._ Joker?"

I'd moved to stand mostly behind J, my view obscured by his shoulders, but I didn't need to see his face to know that he was wearing his _are-you-kidding_ squint at the question. After a short pause, he, shrugged, reached forward, and clasped hands gamely with the little man. "Ah. Most people just say _Joker_," he said, using his _see-I'm-being-polite_ tone and the accompanying light, nasal, unthreatening voice.

"Of course, of course. I'm Oswald Cobblepot," said Cobblepot, clasping the Joker's hand with both of his and pumping it rather vigorously. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time now; you're… quite the celebrity in Gotham."

"Um," said the Joker, extracting his hand from Cobblepot's grip as soon as he could and sidestepping neatly, exposing me. I shot him a quick filthy look in the split second it took Cobblepot to focus his gaze on me—this man didn't _look_ particularly scary, but, as unbelievable as it might seem, he _was_ a formidable figure in Gotham's underworld. I didn't appreciate being shoved front and center just so J could play-act uncomfortable, but ultimately, as always, I trusted that he had something cooking, so I met Cobblepot's eyes and offered the bright smile that seemed to unsettle people, at least when I was in full makeup.

He seemed pleased at the sight of me—at least, the practiced smile he wore seemed to grow a touch warmer, his eyes a bit brighter. "Ah, Miss Quinn!" he greeted me enthusiastically, stepping forward and taking my hand in his. He didn't shake mine—instead, he held it, covering it with his other hand as he looked earnestly into my eyes and said, "My dear lady, how lovely to know you. I'm thrilled you were able to attend on such short noticed; I _had_ hoped to finally meet you."

The Joker shifting the spotlight to me had been unexpected, but I could read the signs—Cobblepot was practically foisting us into the roles of bad cop, good cop, socially speaking, and I was definitely the good cop (I doubted the Joker even knew _how _to be good cop). So, I maintained my smile, even though the eye contact and his prolonged grip on my hand was making me uncomfortable, and I said, "I admit, it was a bit of a surprise, given that I've been patently unavailable until… well, last night, as a matter of fact."

He chuckled, sounding a smidge pleased with himself as he said, "Aren't I the lucky one?"

I tilted my head to the side, still beaming, but couldn't resist jabbing a little further, feeling around for something: "_Very _lucky. Or remarkably well-informed."

He patted my hand with one of his and leaned in conspiratorially. "It behooves one to have friends in all sorts of places, wouldn't you agree?"

Clearly, he wasn't going to dispense with the coy act anytime soon, so I figured it was time to back off. Instead of pressing further, I let loose a theatrically girlish giggle as I tried to place his accent, eventually landing on Transatlantic—yet another oddity; practically no one employed the obviously-affected accent anymore.

Cobblepot, still holding my hand, sought out the Joker, who had taken to prowling around to room and examining the paintings lining the walls. "Ah, Joker—do you think it would be possible to limit this meeting to just you, me, and the lovely Miss Quinn?"

I looked at the Joker, working to keep my worry out of my expression. I didn't want to send the guys outside, not in Cobblepot's territory. That way, it'd be all too easy for his men to take them out quietly, while we sat in Cobblepot's office totally unawares. From that point, bursting in and gunning the two of us down would be a piece of cake. Of course, we had our guns, we could make it hard for them, and part of me was convinced that nothing on earth could _really _kill the Joker, but still—I was scared. And because it was my job, I didn't show it.

The Joker, for his part, stared at Cobblepot just long enough to make the atmosphere slightly uncomfortable, then suddenly, he smiled. "Sounds like a _great _idea."

_I guess we're really doing this, then, _I thought resignedly as he and Cobblepot turned and signaled their men in unison—Cobblepot with a little dismissive wave, the Joker by drawing his finger threateningly across his throat. Silently, the men retreated, and then it was just us.

"Please," said Cobblepot as soon as the door closed behind them, "have a seat." He gestured to a little nook at the side of his office—a sitting area, furnished with a lounge bordering the wall and two big leather armchairs beside it, facing one another over a little wooden table.

The Joker gamely took one chair. Cobblepot took the one across from it. And I, deciding that the lounge looked uncomfortable and that I had been invited to this meeting for a reason—one that wasn't _stay out of the way and look pretty_, if the way the focus had been intentionally put on me at the start of this meeting was any indication—I instead opted to perch on the arm of the chair beside him. His gloved hand slid up my back right away, fingertips tracing their way to my side, where he let his hand rest, and the gentleness of the touch told me I'd made the right call. Simultaneously, then, we looked at Cobblepot.

If he was at all unsettled by the killer clowns moving in perfect unison three feet away from him, he did a good job of hiding it. He gave us a practiced smile, looking from one painted face to the other, and then, settling on J, he began. "I suppose I don't need to tell you I'm a _huge _fan of your work."

The Joker made a polite _listening _face. I could read it for the mockery it was, but I hoped Cobblepot couldn't, and for my part, I disguised my amusement as a half-smirk that would read as cockiness.

"I mean it," Cobblepot insisted, leaning forward to uncork a bottle of scotch that sat on the table between the chairs, pouring a few fingers of alcohol into one of several waiting glasses and then holding the bottle questioningly towards us.

"No, thank you," I said demurely.

"_Sure_," the Joker said, leaning forward and snatching the whole bottle out of Cobblepot's hand. Watching, I saw the man flinch as J's hand collided with his, and he averted his eyes, though whether it was to recover himself or to avoid watching the Joker slurp forty-year-old Dalmore scotch directly out of the bottle was anyone's guess.

He recovered himself quickly, though, and looked right back at us. "You may be surprised to know that the way you've kept this town frightened and confused has been immensely helpful to me," he said, still in that light, practiced socialite-entertaining-guests tone. "I mean, last Halloween?" He laughed, adjusting his spectacles and sipping from his glass. "The gas attack, followed by Miss Quinn's rather spectacular assault on Arkham Asylum? Truly inspired. The two of you work well together."

The Joker and I exchanged a glance. He shrugged and I just barely refrained from scowling at him.

"Really, Miss Quinn," said Cobblepot, leaning forward and catching my eye again, either not noticing the exchange or ignoring it, "I'm _so _pleased that you're here."

The Joker's hand tightened around my waist; he drew me back, closer to him. "Is there any way we can get to the point, ah, mmm, _today_?" he demanded before taking a pull from the bottle in a way that looked almost _petulant._

I leaned slightly back into his shoulder and looked at him, intrigued but trying not to let our host see—I was almost certain J wasn't jealous, rusty at interpreting his moods or not… but he was certainly _acting _like it. That was just it, though: the Joker didn't typically bother with displays of possession in the face of a threat so much as quickly and violently eliminating that threat. This _was _acting, and it was for Cobblepot's benefit.

The man in question sat back, chuckling affably. "Of course," he declared. "I do apologize. I can be a bit… verbose. Now, where was I?" He pondered into his glass for a moment.

I kept my eyes on him, but, testing an idea, I slipped my hand behind the Joker's neck and wound my fingers into his hair—that small cluster of frizzy curls right at the nape, mostly hidden by the rest of his hair. He always missed that bit with the dye; it was still his natural muddy brown. The fact that he didn't immediately knock my hand away despite the fact that we were conducting business spoke volumes, and just like that I knew what his angle was.

"Oh, yes," Cobblepot said abruptly, though his eyes had been tracking the motion of my hand. "Well, as you probably know, given the fact that you accepted my invitation, I've benefited rather substantially from the confusion and chaos your work has caused."

"Are you saying you brought us here to give us a cut?" I asked, meeting his eyes without blinking. Without hesitating for a moment, he let out a peal of good-natured laughter, and I grinned back, the reassuring pressure of the Joker's fingertips against my side making me confident that the more I took point on this, the better.

"Well," said Cobblepot, still smiling, speaking to me now rather than the Joker, "it's rather more accurate to say I would like to cut you _in._ See, officially, we've been working independently of one another thus far, but we have common enemies, and frequently, common _goals. _I believe that if we combine our resources… well. We can both get the things we want."

Beside me, the Joker snorted, drawing our attention immediately. He cleared his throat, covering his mouth with a gloved fist, then said, "Ah… okay. I'll bite. Why don't you _tell _me what I _want, _huh, Ozzie?"

Cobblepot's genteel smile didn't falter, and I saw a look come into his eyes that I didn't entirely like: a look of almost smug satisfaction. "Why, the Batman, I should think," he said, too casually.

Neither of us responded to that right away. The Joker dug his tongue into the hollow of his cheek as he stared the little man down with frowning, thoughtful eyes, and I glanced between the two of them cautiously and tried to predict where this was going, whether the Joker was just going to pull his gun and shoot Cobblepot dead right then. Batman was a touchy subject; I never knew quite how the Joker was going to react to it.

Cobblepot pressed his advantage. "I don't wish for anything permanent, and I have no desire to restrict either of you or your movements in any way," he said, sitting back in his chair with his glass resting comfortably on his knee. "Like any criminal worth his salt, I've paid attention to your movements, and I've hardly failed to notice that throughout your—" he twirled his hand absently in the air—"_career, _you've seemed to rather thrive on media attention and the attention of the Batman… attentions that _I_, on the other hand, have sought to avoid as much as possible.

"Thus far, I've met with a satisfactory amount of success in that effort, but your very presence here in this meeting with me is as strong an indicator as anything else: I'm starting to gain a name, a reputation. In the underworld, that will prove useful, but it won't be long before the reporters come sniffing, then the police, _then_…" He closed his eyes and gave a little shudder that I wasn't convinced was entirely genuine. "The Batman."

The Joker took another pull from the bottle. I jumped in, thinking that if I let Cobblepot get going again, then we'd be there all night. "You have our sympathies, but what exactly are we supposed to do about it?"

"Ahh, Miss Quinzel, cutting right to the point," he said, sounding pleased. "Well, here it is."

"Finally," mumbled the Joker into the neck of the bottle. Cobblepot's eyes darted to him for half a second, then returned to me.

"I would like you to do much as you've done for the past couple of years—only in specific places, at specific times every once in a while," he said simply. He glanced between us, searching for a reaction.

The Joker shifted in the chair and tilted his face up to me, and obligingly, I leaned down so he could mutter into my ear. To Cobblepot, I'm sure it looked as though we were conferring, but all the Joker said to me was "Y'know, behind his back, people call him _the Penguin_."

It was only the past three months of constant therapy sessions wherein I needed to maintain a strong poker face that kept me from bursting out laughing right then. I glanced sideways at Cobblepot and nearly lost it again at the sight of him, because with his build and the black and white tuxedo, it _fit_—fortunately, his jacket was white instead of black, which kept me from tipping over the edge. I didn't know what I would have done if the color scheme had been perfect.

_Get a grip, _I told myself, and leaned pointedly away from the Joker, who was smirking, doubtless knowing exactly how close he'd brought me to cracking. Feeling my poker face solidify, I said, "You want to hire us to be a distraction?"

He thought about that for a moment. "I don't know that I'd put it quite that way… but I suppose essentially, yes. You see, my men suffered a rather close encounter with Batman a week or so ago, and I _really _can't afford to have him sticking his pointy noise into my business, you understand?"

I glanced at the Joker, who stared back at me for a second before lifting his shoulder in a noncommittal half-shrug. Since he still wasn't talking, I addressed Cobblepot again: "With due respect, Mr. Cobblepot—"

"Oh, please, my dear, call me Oswald," he encouraged, wearing that warm, practiced smile.

"Um—" I had no desire to be on a first-name basis with this man, but I wasn't going to tell _him _that, so I simply powered through the moment. "With due respect, and no intended threat—the last time mob bosses made the decision to work with the Joker, two ended up dead, one ended up maimed. Hopefully you see why we don't exactly have great confidence in the motivations of anyone who _knows _that and still wants to work with us."

Cobblepot spread his hands. "As far as I see it, that was just the path being cleared for me."

I smiled quickly and almost sincerely, acknowledging the point. "Even so, you can see why we might be wary of your offer."

"Of course." He leaned forward, looking at the Joker and speaking directly to him now. "It's true that I don't know the entire story behind what happened with you and the bosses last time. It's true that I know I should be wary of working with you. But I can't help but note that a partnership between us would be nothing but beneficial, and it wouldn't inhibit or harm either of us in the least bit. See, Batman's considerably more interested in _you _than _me, _and you—well, you don't mind the attention, do you? You make noise, he comes straight towards you. I get a quiet window in which to conduct business, you get to play with the Batman, _and _you get a cut of my profits, say… er, five percent?"

The Joker stared at him, again remaining silent until Cobblepot felt the pressing need to clear his throat and adjust his collar. Then, slowly, the Joker said, "_Twenty_-five, and maybe I'll consider it."

Cobblepot laughed his warm laugh immediately, a habit I was beginning to identify as a defensive reaction to an uncomfortable situation. "Well, I'm sure there's room for negotiation, but _twenty-five _is a little excessive, don't you think?"

The Joker gave him a look that I was all too familiar with—eyebrows down, lips parted slightly, looking at him sideways in totally-exaggerated and completely-insincere disbelief. "Well… what? You think I'm gonna risk _my _life—"and he gestured towards his chest with the bottle—"_and _waste well-trained henchmen for, what, a few bucks? No—I don't know if you _know _this, but competent help isn't _easy _to find."

Cobblepot chuckled his pleasantly-defensive laugh again. "I don't know if you quite understand—five percent of the sort of score I'm undertaking these days is easily in the neighborhood of half a million dollars. All for simply adjusting the timeline of your usual schedule a bit. Again, I'm hardly asking you to do anything you're not _already_ doing."

"No. You're just asking me to go to work for you," clarified the Joker. The mockery had dropped from his expression now in favor of an utterly terrifying poker face.

Cobblepot saw the danger and backpedaled. "Not at all, not at all! I'm simply suggesting a partnership."

"A _partnership_ where, uh, you get _ninety-five _percent of the take… and _I _get the breadcrumbs. Mm, sounds _tempting_."

Cobblepot was laughing again, though the polish had slipped and I could hear his discomfort under it all. "My good man, given the details of the proposal, I hardly think it's as unfair as you're making it sound."

"No, no, _noo_—why would you? _You _stand to gain the most from it, after all." As he spoke, the pressure of the Joker's grip on my back increased, which I took as a cue to look at him.

He tilted his head meaningfully; I immediately leaned back and spoke into his ear. "Need something?" I whispered, conscious that Cobblepot's eyes were now fixed on me and tracking my every move.

Watching our host from the corners of his eyes, the Joker said to me in a whisper that even _I _could barely make out, "Say something persuasive; let him hear your tone."

I hid my mouth with the back of my hand and leaned into his shoulder, obeying the order with the first spitball of an idea that popped into my head. "If you come to dinner with my parents, I'll give you a blowjob tonight."

I actually felt him shudder in horror at the scenario, the big baby. He turned, literally growling in my ear before actually forming words: "Like I've ever had to _bargain _for that. Say something else, same tone, one more time."

"You should buy me a new gun and I'll kill someone with it for you. A cop. Yeah?"

He looked at Cobblepot then, and I straightened up and brushed a loose lock of hair away from my throat, not failing to notice that Cobblepot visibly had to reorient his focus from me to the Joker before my partner started speaking: "Five percent," he yielded, "for the _first _job. Call it a, uh, a trial period. After that, we renegotiate."

Cobblepot held up his hands to signal defeat, then grinned. "How can I say no?" he asked, then leaned forward and stuck out his hand. "We have a deal."

The Joker looked at it like he was being asked to shake hands with a soccer mom, scowled a bit, then reached out and clasped it. Cobblepot pumped vigorously away at the handshake, either oblivious to or completely ignoring the Joker's distaste. "Deal," he repeated, and finally let go. He probably didn't notice J immediately wiping his gloved hand on his pants, since once again, he'd zeroed in on me.

"Dear Miss Quinn," he said, reaching out for me, and though I was also put off by his weird exuberance, I couldn't afford to tip our hand by being standoffish now, so I gave him my hand, which he promptly kissed. "I'm _truly _glad you came," he said, raising his watery blue eyes to mine. "Please, if you're ever inclined, come by the club, have a drink. I'd be thrilled to see you again."

The Joker stood abruptly, reaching over to pull my hand away from Cobblepot's and draw me to my feet. "Thanks for the invite. We'll take you up on it," he said, playing jealous again. "Now, it's been fun, Ozzie, but I think we'll, uhhh, see our_selves _out."

"But of course," Cobblepot said, standing along with us and flashing that debonair smile at him. "I'll be in touch, yes?"

"Can't _wait_," the Joker assured him, putting his hand on my waist and steering me out of the room.

Contrary to my concerns, the henchmen we'd brought along were standing alive and attentive outside the door, though the big security bouncers standing like military men just a few feet away made me think that if the meeting had started to go sour, my fears may have been completely justified. "We're leaving," the Joker said lowly to our guys, and they fell in line behind us as the Joker escorted me back through the club, through the kitchen, and out into the alley, where George waited with the car. Only once we'd gotten into the backseat and the masquerade was no longer required did he let go of me.

"Keep an eye out for tails, wouldjya?" he instructed George as he lifted his lower half away from the seat and off his coat so he could dig in a back pocket.

"Will do, boss," George said without inflection as he pulled out of the alley and set us on the course home.

Now that we were safely out of the club, I turned towards the Joker and asked, "Can we talk about what just happened in there?"

He'd found what he was looking for in his pocket—a burner phone, one of many. As he settled back down in the seat, he shot me a quick sideways glance before returning his attention to the phone. "Not _yet, _we can't," he said briefly.

I nearly argued, but I was slowly re-attuning my instincts to the job, and I realized that we weren't exactly alone, so any discussion of potentially sensitive plans wouldn't exactly be the wisest course of action at this date. I looked at the rearview mirror to find that George had just glanced back, his indifferent gaze focused briefly on me, and I grimaced through the mirror at him, rewarded by the sight of the slightest creasing at the edges of his eyes before he looked back at the road.

I hardly thought George was waiting around to betray us, but then, I knew that I was already forming a preference for him, so given my resolution to avoid getting close with the henchmen this time around, it didn't seem wise to argue in favor of his trustworthiness. Not that I knew anything about _that_, either; I'd only been back for a day.

So, I forced myself to stay quiet for the ride back to the hideout, though it wasn't easy, and if the Joker had been the type to be bothered by fidgeting, I doubt we'd have both made it home. As it was, he ignored me with enviable ease. My impatience must not have gone completely unnoticed, because the second George pulled to a stop outside of our door, he snapped "Follow me," and left the car abruptly.

I scrambled after him. He led the way through the building, ignoring the gathered guys, and I followed exactly two paces behind, all the way up to his room, where he closed the door behind us and finally looked at me. "The hell's going on with you?" he asked irritably as he shrugged his way out of his coat and hung it haphazardly on the rack in the corner. "Ants in your pants?"

"Excuse me for being a little impatient," I retorted without any real sting as I dropped down on the bed and started tugging my boots off. "I want to know why you set things up to make it look like I'm on Cobblepot's side."

He folded his arms across his chest, crossed one ankle over the other, and leaned back against the door, a rather self-satisfied gleam surfacing in his eyes. "Not _on his side_," he corrected me casually."Jussst… the weakest _link_." I stared at him blankly for a second before the smile started creeping across my face.

I was hardly oblivious to the fact that people underestimated me. In fact, ever since I started working with the Joker, I actively encouraged it, finding that people were _much _easier to subdue if they weren't expecting me to pack a hell of a punch (let alone know how to shoot and handle a knife). People's expectations of me had hugely assisted me in my career as Harley Quinn. However, I hadn't ever thought to use those expectations on a grander scale than hand-to-hand combat or the basic grifting needed on a job.

"_Now_ you're getting it," purred the Joker, seeing the light in my eyes, and he pushed away from the door, prowling over towards me as I sat up straighter.

"He thinks I'm a soft touch," I said, thinking back to our little whispered exchange in the middle of their negotiation, fully understanding now why he'd wanted it to look to Cobblepot like I'd encouraged him to take the five percent. "A soft touch with more influence over you than is good for your operation." Cobblepot's staring made more sense now, and I met the Joker's eyes, spotting the malevolently cheerful gleam in them that he only got when he was cheating at the game. "J," I asked, hearing the delight in my own tone and powerless to disguise it, not here, when he was the only one to witness it: "Are you planning on using me as _bait_?"

He loosed a high-pitched cackle, clearly pleased at my less-than-furious reaction. "At _least _that, for starters," he said impishly. "With any luck, we'll have you up to a double agent in _no time_."

I laughed aloud, flopping back onto the bed, arms stretched out. "Ahh, that's _great_," I said enthusiastically. "You think he'll try to convince me that I'm a battered woman and that the only way out is to kill you?"

He paused. "I _hope_ so."

"You could have told me your angle going in," I said, propping myself up on my elbows so I could look reproachfully at him. "I'd have gone full tyrannical-moll."

"No, no, no, _no,_" he said, stepping over to the bed and taking my chin in his gloved hand, tilting my head up so he could peer right into my eyes. "That woulda tipped the hand, Harley, let him know we were _onto_ him. Don't worry. I saw the way he was lookin' at you. He swallowed the _hook_, all right."

I beamed at him, and he bent down to press a noisy kiss to my brow before letting me go and stepping away. I bounced lightly on the bed and said, "So should I go visit the club soon?"

"Mmmm," he rumbled thoughtfully as he pulled his pocket watch out and consulted it. "All in good _time, _Harley, but that's not the _job_ right now."

"What _is _the job, then?" I asked, and he replaced the watch before meeting my eyes briefly.

"Right _now,_" he said at length, "the job is sitting tight and waiting for _Pengy_ to get in touch with _us_." He flashed me a quick grin, then pulled the door open and disappeared down the hallway, leaving me hopelessly impatient and excited and _beyond_ ready for the next turn of the game.

* * *

**A/N** - Check me out, two updates within one week! Apparently, the way I unwind after a remarkably cluttered and busy week is by holing myself up in my room and working on stuff I haven't had the time to do. Also you guys have been so great and undemanding, I thought it was high time I introduced you to Oswald.

And on the topic of Oswald- some time ago, there was a fancast of the late great Philip Seymour Hoffman as Penguin, and I never quite recovered from it. He's definitely able to pull off the face of sophistication with this element of dangerous brutality beneath (check out his performance in The Master, for real), and all in all he's the guy I keep in mind while I'm visualizing Oswald, so there's a tidbit for you. :)

edit: to anyone concerned about the state of Harley's feet and particularly the guest reviewer who was bothered that she wasn't limping or crippled the next morning- I can assure you as someone who has personally experienced the exact same thing on several occasions (I go barefooted everywhere, at a certain point you start learning your foot injuries in and out), it's one of those injuries that stings like a bitch and is very debilitating the _night of_, but after a few hours/one night's sleep, the cuts have scabbed over and the tenderness has all but disappeared. Still a little sore, but nothing that's going to keep you from moving around as usual. My apologies if I didn't make it clear that the pieces were little ones, not monster shards cutting deep enough to need stitches/longer recovery time.

I had to do some rewrites during the Cobblepot meeting, so if you spot something that seems out of place or simply doesn't make sense, be a darling and point it out? I've proofread but you know how it is, sometimes you're too close to your own writing to spot even the most glaring errors. And... next chapter might be my favorite in the entire story, and it's a whopper at 8k+ words, AND it's all from Joker's POV, so y'all have that to look forward to. In the meantime, stick a hand out, yell at me, let me know you're still on board! You reviewers are life. Thank you.


	12. you can tell by the way I walk

**Chapter Eleven**

**you can tell by the way I walk things are gonna work out well**

_Oh, don't mind me, I'm impossible  
I'll rip your heart out and I'll eat it whole  
O la la la, baby, say it with me  
Yes, yes, yes!_

**-Foxy Shazam**_, Yes! Yes! Yes!_

The Joker blinked suddenly and released a breath he had been holding for… well, he didn't really know how long. It didn't matter.

He'd been sleeping. Or… meditating, maybe, although that didn't really sound like him. The point was that the shadows that routinely flickered in the edges of his consciousness had gotten a _little _aggressive lately, and he'd intentionally zoned out for a few hours, hoping that when he came back, things in his head would have calmed down.

Tragically, it wasn't so. He'd managed to tune things out for the last hour… or five, but the second he stepped back into his head, the buzzing started again. He blinked a couple of times, lips pursed slightly in displeasure. _Well, __**that**__ didn't work. _Time to go to Plan B.

It had been… oh, a week since his meeting with the Penguin, which had gone just about exactly as he'd wanted it to. He'd met the guy, gotten a sense for him, set Harley up as a straw girl in a crown, and opened the lines of communication for the future. Oh, and he'd seen for himself why the underworld had nicknamed him _Penguin,_ that had been an equally important goal.

He had, of course, been aware of Oswald Cobblepot's existence almost from the time he had first stuck his head out. He had yet to dig deep into his background—just hadn't gotten around to it—but he knew the basics, which were that dear old Ozzie was, essentially, a sketchy businessman who'd decided that instead of being a businessman-slash-_criminal_, he wanted things to be the other way around.

Which was fine, _really. _The Joker didn't object to a bit of healthy competition, especially among mob bosses. He'd let Ozzie do what he wanted for a few months—until his sources told him that Batman had been spotted, more than once, in areas where Oswald was pursuing certain criminal activities.

That was when the Joker had decided that they were overdue for a little visit. See, Batman didn't show his ugly mug that much these days, not after he took the fall for Harvey Dent—figuratively speaking, of course—and had been pushed out of that cozy little bed he'd been sharing with Gotham's PD in disgrace. The Joker found the whole thing hilarious, really, except for one thing: the police trying to nab him on sight made it a little harder for Batman to come out and play. Oh, he still _did_—he couldn't seem to resist that savior adrenaline rush—but his appearances were less frequent, more unpredictable.

As a result, the Joker valued each and every moment the Batman deigned to skulk out of his cave… or knothole, or wherever he sat and brooded while waiting for someone to misbehave and give him the opportunity to play _hero._ Thing was, he didn't like Batman wasting those precious moments on _someone else. _Everyone knew the Joker was top dog in this city, and he had to admit, it was a little hurtful that Bats was apparently worried less about _him _than a two-bit wannabe gangster shaped like a sack of flour. The Joker hadn't even _seen _Batman in two months; he was starting to worry that he didn't really _care_ about their relationship anymore.

It was nonsense, of course. He _knew _he was Batman's one and only. Still, it didn't hurt to make a gesture, which was why he was planning to tie old Ozzie in knots—take care of things so Batman could really focus on _them _again. Only problem being that in order not to give his plans away, he had to wait for the Penguin to get in touch. Which he hadn't.

The Joker wasn't _bored_—he was _never _bored; but he _was _feeling a bit restless, cooped up in the hideout like this. He sat up abruptly from the bed he found himself in and ascertained that it was dark. _Oh, goody. _He got to his feet and went hunting.

He found her downstairs in the main room. She was alone, stretched out on her side on the overstuffed, cracked leather couch that had been there when they'd moved in, eyes fixed on the widescreen TV that had certainly _not. _He glanced at the screen. She was watching Spongebob. Christ, he needed to teach her some more productive ways to spend her free time.

_Ah, well. No time like the present._

"Hey." She'd noticed him, and he pretended not to see the way her eyes lit up at the sight of his old bones leaning against the doorway. She managed to stay still, although she immediately muted the TV with respect to his sudden appearance.

He squinted at her. "Where are the fellas?"

She hunched her shoulder in a brief shrug. "A couple are back in the rooms sleeping, but most of them were just sitting around, getting restless waiting around for something to do. After fight number… _three _broke out, I threw some cash at them, told them to go to the damn bar. I hope that was okay."

Well, if she wasn't just a little _mommy._ The Joker always liked watching Harley deal with the henchmen, to the extent of often standing totally back and watching her handle internal conflict. Last time around, she'd adapted a method of alternating between mothering them and bullying them that seemed to keep them both cowed and half in love—it was _funny _as hell to watch, especially when macho new guys joined up and tried to throw their weight around with her. There were admittedly a few more of those types around than there had the last time she was there, and he'd been looking forward to seeing how she handled herself around them. Thus far, they'd mostly seemed to leave each other alone—Harley especially was keeping pretty much to herself, but he knew it wouldn't last. She liked people too much, and once she started incorporating herself into the group, the fireworks would _really _start.

He didn't clue her into that line of thought, instead giving her a wry twist of a half-smile as he scuffed across the floor towards her. He could see the pulse in her pretty little neck thumping away fast as he approached, but she remained perfectly still, stretched out and entirely vulnerable. If he ever _did _decide to just abruptly cut her throat without warning, she would make it _so _easy for him. He'd have to goad and poke at her instead, make her mad. When she was mad, she fought back, and his little Harley packed one hell of a wallop these days. She was so much _fun _when she was fighting.

But that wasn't the plan tonight.

Instead, he simply stretched out on top of her, settling his weight onto her, resting his temple against that pulse point and feeling it hammer away—_I'm not dead I'm not dead I'm not dead_, growing slower and calmer as she turned on her back underneath him and put her arms and legs around him, welcoming the weight instead of trying to escape it. Sometimes, he felt sure that Harley wouldn't mind if he smothered her, provided he did it _this _way, his body holding hers down as he stole the last breath from her lungs.

She reached up, smoothing his hair back, and after a second, she whispered, "What's wrong?"

The correct answer to that was, of course, _nothing,_ but he didn't bother to say it: she should already know. Instead, he exhaled long and quietly against her throat, mentally spinning the wheel that would decide how they were going to spend their evening.

She smelled clean. She _always _smelled clean.

It didn't take him long to land on an idea. She'd missed a few things while she was at Arkham, totally deprived of any relevant news, and there were some new habits of his he wanted to let her in on, especially since she'd been so good since her return, her first night back notwithstanding. He caught a silky strand of her hair with his thumb and index finger, and as he rubbed it between his fingertips, he asked casually, "How do you feel about date night?"

It was a rhetorical question—he knew the answer, but he thought the reaction she gave him every single time was funny, so he still bothered to ask. He felt her body go rigid under his, then she asked, "Tonight?" in a tone of doubt so scared and childlike that he almost took the offer back just to justify that tone.

Instead, he grinned against her skin and confirmed it. "_Tonight_. We just gotta get ready, hmm? Plainclothes. You… find something that makes you look… _mouthwatering_. Got it?"

"Got it," she said excitedly, and started trying to struggle out from beneath him, with poor results: he wasn't moving. "J," she huffed, pushing ineffectively at his shoulders, "get _off!_ I have to go change!"

"I have to go _change_," he whined mockingly into her ear, cackling at her futile efforts.

She stopped, turned her head, looked him in the eye, and then her legs were locked around his and in a split second, she'd flipped them both over onto the floor. He hadn't exactly been resisting—dead weight more than anything else—but still, he'd forgotten that she was surprisingly strong, even after being out of the game for a while. Maybe he shouldn't have left her in the Asylum so long; _this _was fun, even—_especially_—if he was going to have a knot on the back of his head come morning.

She immediately tried to untangle her legs, but he caught her by the hips before she could jump up, digging his fingers sharply into the lean flesh there. She gave a little huff and looked down at him, half-inquiring, half-frustrated, but her eyes were bright and he could see the excitement shining through.

Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he stared at her face and saw how _pretty, pretty, pretty _she was. It wasn't something he thought about a lot—generally, he was more concerned about whether or not people were _interesting _than if they were _beautiful_—but _Harley_, being both, was a special case.

His hands were drifting up and he didn't remember asking them to; they were suddenly clutched around her throat, her loose hair making a barrier between her delicate neck and the rough, acid-chewed skin of his hands. He frowned—_that wouldn't do at all_—but instead of just clearing the hair away, he opened up his hands, fingertips scraping against her soft cheeks, thumbs brushing against the corners of her mouth.

All that smooth, youthful skin. While the Joker looked years older than he actually was, Harley looked years _younger_, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't occasionally—okay, _frequently_—struck with the impulse to take a blade to that fresh face, pucker it up with ugly scars to match his, _really _stamp her with his ownership.

He wouldn't, of course. Not now, probably never. Scarring her face would defeat the whole _purpose_: having her pretty face around threw the ugliness of _his_ into stark relief. In that, it made an invaluable point to the people of Gotham: _nobody _was safe. If her face was as ugly and mutilated as his, they could be dismissed, just a couple of _freaks _that found each other. With her face clean and intact, and not only that but _pretty _as well, she was living evidence that he could happen to anyone, even the young, handsome, and respectable.

Knowing this didn't remove the urge to cut her up, but it stayed it, and he helped it along with a couple of effective coping mechanisms. The first was scarring her in other, less grotesque places, as he'd done with the diamonds on her arms—hell, there were some people who'd have _paid _for what he'd done there. The other… well. That was what he'd be doing _tonight_.

He distantly noted that the exasperated laughter had left her eyes to make room for curiosity, maybe even a touch of worry, but she didn't ask, which was just as well, since he wouldn't have told her what was running through his mind, anyway. Instead, he patted her cheek. "All right, go on."

"About time," she muttered, the worry disappearing from her expression as he let his hands fall away from her. She finished climbing to her feet and deliberately stepped on his stomach on the way out—she didn't dig in enough to really wind him, but it was enough to startle a laugh out of him. _Oh, the audacity!_ After having a little chuckle to himself, he rolled over, getting to his feet and loping along after her at a more leisurely pace. He had a few preparations to make as well.

He was pleased to note as he ascended the stairs that the flickering shadows had fallen back, held at bay for the time being. Looked like date night had been the right idea, after all.

He arrived in their room to find Harley making a racket in the coffin-sized closet. He toyed with the idea of pulling the door closed, hitting the light switch, and holding her in there (he'd done it before; she always yelled out the most interesting threats, it was a real hoot) but decided against it tonight. He was dressed up in distinct Joker attire; he needed to see about finding something less recognizable for the night's events.

Most of his clothes were of the brightly-colored, well-tailored variety he favored for his public appearances, so it took him a little longer than he would have liked, but he finally happened upon the drawer that held the civilian odds and ends roughly in his size that he'd collected with the passage of time. After deliberating for a moment, he stripped off his suit pants, shirt, and vest and replaced them with dark work jeans and a black canvas jacket that he zipped up over his white undershirt, slipping a few necessary tools into the pockets. He finished up by tucking his ragged green hair into a black beanie he'd found under the bed.

Of course, the layman's clothes were useless if he didn't strip off his face, too, so he took himself to the cramped little bathroom. Harley had beaten him there and was standing in front of the sink, carefully applying smoky eyeshadow with the help of the cracked mirror on the wall. He rolled his eyes, wedged himself between her and the wall, and started elbowing her.

"Shit, ouch!" she complained, quickly twisting away from his sharp arms and consequently ending up behind him, outside of the bathroom. He took her place in front of the mirror gladly, reaching for the little bottle of oil she had there. Harley always had baby oil so she could easily remove her makeup. Before her, he couldn't be bothered to keep a practical remover around, usually just scrubbing the shit out of his face with soap and water when he needed to remove his paint, but now that she was around he just used hers. It was easier. Sure, she got mad at him for using half the bottle in one go, but he always tuned her out, and she was starting to catch on to the futility of scolding him.

Though she sure looked pissed _now. _"Mirror hog," she hissed. He shrugged unrepentantly as he slathered the oil across his face, and she turned and flounced back into the room, leaving him in peace.

He found a towel (doubtless her doing; he never could seem to keep them around on his own) and started scrubbing the oil from his face, stripping the makeup off along with it. Piece by piece, the vivid colors were torn away, and after a minute, the Joker was left staring at his own flesh. He brought the towel away from his face, crumpling it up in his palms and tossing it away into the corner, not breaking eye contact with himself the entire time.

It wasn't that the Joker _didn't_ _like_ the sight of his own face. He was a man who thoroughly appreciated some good melodrama, but that particular strain of self-loathing would simply be too easy and too impractical—the paint had to come off most days, after all, if only for him to _shave_. No, he didn't dislike his face, nor was he exactly uncomfortable without the paint, at least not in a way that would lend ammunition against him to anyone that was looking for it.

_No,_ he thought as he brought his finger up, resting the tip on his left eyeball in the mirror, _the problem is that it just doesn't… feel… right_. He punctuated the thought by dragging his finger down the glass in three stuttering movements, leaving a trail of oil that marred the image and made him feel just a little better. His face without makeup no longer felt like his _natural _face. It belonged to another time, a time well before all of _this, _a time he had long ago put behind him with no intention of ever looking back. He figured he couldn't be blamed for feeling a little dissonance, especially dressed like a civilian, with even his hair hidden from view.

But, whether he felt quite himself without the paint or not, the practical fact was that he needed to go without tonight, so without another thought, he straightened up and clicked the light off before heading back into the bedroom.

Harley had finished her makeup through use of a compact and was now pulling on a pair of black heels. The rest of her ensemble was simple: a black skirt—long enough to clear prostitute territory, short enough to still be inviting, more or less exactly what he had in mind—and a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder top in white cotton, hiding the diamond scars but revealing the straps of the black camisole she wore underneath, the outline of which was clearly discernible beneath the paper-thin material. It was the perfect blend of naïvely innocent (one would _have_ to be to wear something like that on the streets of Gotham after midnight) and alluring, and it was _perfect _for what he had in mind. As someone who valued the element of presentation, the Joker was a pretty big fan of how Harley could use an outfit to set a specific mood.

She was looking up at him, her eyes asking for some sort of validation, and he perched his hands on his hips and cocked his head. "Now, Harley," he said in a chiding tone, "did you read my mind?"

A slow smile came over her face, almost shy even after all this time. Oh, how she _loved_ any scrap of praise from him. She stood up, rock-steady in her heels, and he saw her scoop up something small from the bed—he recognized it as one of the several knives he'd given her—and slip it past the neckline of her camisole. _Good girl_, smart enough to know that she shouldn't put all of her trust in him to get her through the night alive. She was growing up.

With a slight flourish, he bowed his head and offered his hand to her. "Shall we?"

"With pleasure," she said, putting her hand in his, and without further ado, he pulled her from the room.

He stopped on the way out of the house and grabbed a keychain at random from the drawer where they were all thrown in together, pressing it into Harley's hand. "You're driving," he told her simply. He _could_ drive with relatively low risk, given that it was dark and they were headed somewhere without much street light, but it was always better if he stayed more or less out of sight. She closed her hand around the keys without comment, he tightened his grip on her, and they left the house.

The night was perfect—the heat of August was finally beginning to die along with the month, leaving the air not too warm, not too cold, and… flat. Tense. The lack of a moon combined with the light from Gotham's skyline obscuring the stars ensured that there was little beauty to be found tonight. The Joker approved.

The keys turned out to belong to some nondescript old clunker. Harley got into the driver's side and started it up with just a little effort, and he joined her on the passenger's side, playing around with the levers beside the seat until he'd pushed his as far back as it could go, accommodating his lanky legs, and leaned the seat back till he was safely below window level. He let out a contented sigh and folded his arms behind his head.

He realized at length that Harley was looking expectantly at him. He knew what she wanted, of course, but he still put on a theatrically surprised look. "Uh," he said, looking around like she might be staring at someone else, "_what_?"

She rolled her eyes, but she was betrayed by the twist of her mouth. She _adored_ him; he knew it well. "You know _exactly_ what," she said, facing forward in an effort to hide her amusement. "Where are we going?"

"Oh. That. Uh—the Narrows."

She forgot about trying to hide and turned sharply to look at him, excitement practically glowing in her eyes. "Really?"

"No, _just_ _kidding_, I figure we can find more opportunities for fun in the Palisades," he snapped sarcastically. "Of _course_, really." She was grinning by now, and without any more questions, she put the car in drive. He pillowed his head on his arms again, relaxed, and settled back to enjoy the drive.

He spent a good deal of the ride looking up and out of the window at the buildings of the city as they passed by, but he also kept an eye on Harley, watching as shadows morphed her features into any number of grotesque contortions before a street light would illuminate her face and prove that the fearsome ugliness was just a temporary illusion. As a result of his attentiveness, he saw that she was glancing over at him fairly frequently. It was hardly unusual for Harley to look at him, not as love-struck as she was—half the time, she had him convinced that his face really _was_ something pleasant to her eyes, rather than an interesting aberration.

Still, regardless of what right she thought she had, staring was _rude_. He looked out of his window to lull her into a false sense of security, then, casually, he noted, "Y'know, generally drivers are supposed to focus on the _road_, not their passengers." He gave it a second, then shot her a sideways glance.

She was staring fixedly out of the windshield, all but ignoring him now and definitely confirming her guilt. He popped his tongue in the corner of his mouth in satisfaction. "Thought so. Penny for your thoughts, _Harley_? What's so interesting tonight?"

She took a second to think about it. She'd done that almost from the time she'd met him, always so wary of making the wrong step—it was part of what made him like her so early on, the wariness that pointed to an appropriate sense of fear combined with obvious fascination… but lacking the usual repulsion. He got the fear a lot, the fascination frequently enough, but he rarely met anyone these days who _wasn't_ repulsed by him. Sure, sometimes she'd been taken aback by things he _said_, but he never got the impression that she was disgusted by him, not _really_. Quite the opposite, in fact.

She was getting quicker at answering loaded questions; she was talking now after just two seconds of silence: "You just remind me of the way you looked when we met, is all. Except better." She turned her head to flash him a quick smile. "No orange."

Ah. So it was the lack of paint, the weird normalcy that was getting to her. He could sympathize. He tilted his head back against his arms and drawled, "Orange isn't anybody's color, doll."

There was a pause, long and loud enough that he feared that she was about to say something fucking stupid. When she did speak, though, it was to change the subject. "I really missed being out and about in the city," she said softly, peering up through the windshield as they passed through a shadowy, decrepit industrial zone.

Ah, right. Though he knew she'd been in the asylum for a few months, it often slipped his mind—sometimes throughout the summer he'd forgotten about her absence for weeks on end. That reminded him: he had yet to pick her brain about the whole experience. "How _are_ things back at old Arkham?" he asked idly, picking at a stray thread at the knee of his pants. "Cozy?"

She snorted. "It was a learning experience, I'll give you that." He couldn't detect any bitterness in her tone; that was a good sign. Thus far, she didn't seem too mad at him for letting the cops pick her up in the first place—smart, really; if she nursed any resentment it would just do her more harm than anything else. _Live and let live_, he always said. Well, he'd said it once. Maybe.

"Make any friends?"

She shot him a quick, wry smile. "Not exactly." Returning her eyes to the road, she added, "Turns out that everyone and their mother thinks I'm crazy only because of _you_, so as you can imagine, my refusal to discuss you with anyone… pissed some people off."

Now, _that_ was interesting. Rolling his head sideways to stare at her, he asked, "Oh, come on, you didn't find _anyone_ to be your confidante? Didn't seek relationship advice during _shower time_ with the girls?"

She rolled her eyes at the suggestion, and as they rolled up to a red light, she turned and met his eyes. "Not a single true word about you. To _anyone_."

Interesting, indeed. Harley was such a chatty little creature, and he knew full well that he was her favorite thing in the _world_—it must have taken quite a lot of restraint to keep from discussing him with the doctors, the patients, the help… and yet he didn't see a hint of guilt or unease in her eye, and she wasn't quite good enough at disguising her expressions to lie to _him_. He was a little impressed. Even _he_ would understand the temptation to get some revenge on him for letting her go to Arkham in the first place, and the easiest way would be to disclose some petty little secrets. Of course, he wouldn't _react_ well, but he would _understand_. But no. Not a word.

The light turned green and she faced front again, continuing in a lighter tone. "You wouldn't believe some of the lengths they went to in the attempt to get something out of me, though."

"Shock therapy?" he asked hopefully.

She hissed derisively. "They wanted to make me _talk_, not turn me into a _zombie_. No—you remember David Wilson?"

He thought about it for a second, and when he drew a total blank, he winced. "Y'know," he said, scratching the beanie at the back of his head, "I meet so many _people_…"

"First doctor you ever had a session with. Sympathetic face."

"Oh. Him."

"Yeah. _Him_. He's running the asylum now, and let me tell you… he is _not_ good at it."

He laughed sarcastically through his nose. "Well, well, color me surprised. What, is _out-niceing_ his patients not working?"

"Apparently not," she said, her tone growing harder, and he noticed that her hands were gripping the steering wheel a bit more tightly than was strictly necessary. He straightened up a little. Well, _this_ was interesting. What did Doctor Davey do to little Harley that made her so uncharacteristically angry with him?

He prodded at the wound. "Say, weren't the two of you friends?"

She laughed, and the bitter edge to the sound confirmed his suspicions. She and old Davey had fallen out in a _big_ way. "Yeah, back when I was an idiot. Being his patient really cleared some things up."

"Such as…?"

"Well, I'll give you an example," she said with sarcastic lightness. "Once, when a session wasn't going well enough for him, he left me in one of those rooms, lights out. After a second, they started piping in… you."

"_Me_?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. He hadn't visited Arkham during the summer… had he?

"Recordings of you," she clarified. "From the sessions we had when we were there, spliced together so it sounded… almost like you were talking to me, right there at that moment." She paused for several seconds, and when she spoke again, her voice was a little shaky, though her expression remained hard and angry. "Completely deprived of any news of you for months, no TV, no newspapers, and then suddenly, sitting in the dark like that, I could _hear_ you, asking me questions, just like you were standing there beside me. It was…"

She stopped abruptly. The Joker saw her mouth twist up in anger or fear or sadness, and since he didn't exactly want to get into a wreck tonight, he reached over and plucked absently at the neckline of her shirt. When she glanced sideways at him, he asked amiably, "Did I tell you that you were pretty?"

She laughed at that, and though the sound was a bit shakier than usual, it was reassuring—she was back with him again. "Maybe. I don't know. I blocked it all out as soon as I realized what was going on."

He leaned back into his seat. "So what'd old Wilson have to say about it next time you spoke?"

"Oh, he denied it. I didn't let him do much more before I throttled him a little bit."

He felt a pulse of sudden, vicious glee. "_Atta_ girl," he said approvingly. "Any permanent damage?"

"They got me with the antipsychotics before I could crush his windpipe," she admitted, sounding genuinely resentful. _Oh_, did he love Harley when she was bloodthirsty.

"We should pay him a house call soon," he suggested, throwing a little fuel on the fire.

"Good idea. Instead of making him come to us, we'll go to him."

"_Now_ you're talking."

She laughed again, and this time the sound was heartier—which was good, because they were getting into the Narrows by then, and he needed her focused. He straightened up and quietly scanned the area as they drove for a few minutes, looking for someplace ideal. It didn't take him long; he knew the Narrows well—it had been one of his favorite haunts for a long time. Once he'd mapped out a location and a plan in his head, he rapped his knuckles against Harley's neck and pointed. "Three blocks further, two to the left. Park there."

She shot him a glance but said nothing, just complied. His directions took them to an old shoe factory—long burned down, now just a charred skeleton, but there was enough space beyond the mostly torn-down chain-link fence for them to park comfortably. She cut the lights, turned off the engine, and turned to him, awaiting more instruction.

He returned his seat to its upright position and then leaned back to look through the back windshield and check the street beyond their little hiding spot. As he remembered, it was dark and unfriendly, the immediate area lit only by the flickering sign of the only pawn shop brave enough to stay open 24/7 in this neighborhood, the street lights all long-since broken by stray stones or bullets. _And just try to get the city to spare a few nickels for street improvements in the Narrows._

Satisfied, he leaned back and looked at her. "What's the game plan, boss?" she asked on cue, and though the light was insufficient for him to see her face, he heard her quiet excitement loud and clear in her voice. He realized suddenly that they'd never done this together, and he grinned.

"You're in for some fun tonight," he confided, and reached forward to bury his hands in her hair. She remained still, waiting to see what he was doing, and he just ran his fingers through the soft strands several times in succession, making her hair messy and disheveled. "You're gonna want to smear your makeup some," he said helpfully as he pulled back, and she obediently ran the back of her hand across one eye, then the other. In the dark, he couldn't tell quite how much of a mess she looked, but it was just window-dressing, really.

"O-_kay_," he said, and opened his door, getting out of the car. She followed, locking the doors behind them—not that it would do much good if a really capable or really determined thief happened along, but the car was hidden well enough and odds were good that their business would be concluded before anyone stumbled upon it.

Once out, he gestured for her to follow him, and she trotted along to his side, looping her arm through his, a mark of affection he tolerated—it was date night, after all. He led the way out of the abandoned lot and to the cracked, pitted sidewalk before pausing again and looking up and down the street.

The spot he'd chosen was fairly secluded, but further along the street, he saw the occasional dark bundle of homeless person sleeping against the wall, and then, further down and spaced out, clusters of dark-clothed people, some walking, some just hanging around at the mouths of alleyways, all in groups. He'd wager that at least one of those groups was just looking for a little fun, and with the way Harley looked…

He gave her arm a little squeeze and turned to look down at her. "Okie-dokie," he said, sounding as chipper as he felt. "_Here's_ what's going to happen. _You're_ going to bring me some of _those_." He pointed a skeletal finger towards the dark figures. "Play it how you want, uhh—drunk _clubber_ trying to find a cab, distraught victim of a surprise breakup, I don't care. Just… make sure they smell _blood_."

She looked up at him, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find that her eyes were shining. She always _did_ like to prey on self-declared predators more than regular joes, a preference that didn't bother him that much—predators were everywhere you looked in this city, and as long as she didn't make the preference into a solid rule, he didn't mind how many thieves and murderers and rapists she felt like killing. All it meant was more blood on her hands, and the more of _that_, the better.

"Where will you be?" she asked simply.

"I'll find a nice alley a ways up the road," he assured her. "Quiet, dark, out of the _way_—somewhere we won't be _disturbed_. You just worry about _hooking_ them."

"Whistle when I get close," she said, and turned away and started down the sidewalk.

He stood and watched her for a second. To the best of his knowledge, she'd never done this before, but you couldn't tell by looking at her—she was tottering a little on the very same heels she'd run down stairs and through the house in with perfect balance earlier, and though she wasn't overselling her weaving path, there was enough unsteadiness to make her look like easy pickings. He waited till he heard her sniffle a little, then grinned and crossed the street, ducking into an alley that would take him behind the line of old buildings that bordered the street.

He knew this neighborhood. He wasn't _sure_, but he thought he'd lived here once… or at least holed up here during one of the numerous times when the heat had gotten a little too intense for his liking. He loped along behind the buildings, swiftly jumped a chain-link fence blocking his path, landed on his feet, and kept moving fast, dropping some coins he'd found in the jacket he was wearing on a blanketed lump of a homeless person bedding down behind an old paper mill without breaking stride. With the unsteady gait Harley had adopted, he was confident that he was making better time than she was, and it wasn't long before he was about a quarter mile down the back way, where he found the perfect alley.

It was dark and private, the brick walls rising up on either side solid and windowless. There was light by which he could work, coming from the dim lantern by the back door of one of the businesses in the loading street he'd just left—the light was behind him and would allow him to see sufficiently forward, but wouldn't illuminate his face to anyone approaching from the front. The street that the alley opened into was empty and as dark as any place _could_ be in the city, and he thought it unlikely that they'd be interrupted. He leaned against the wall in the shadows behind a dumpster and waited.

It wasn't long before he heard the clip of her heels on the sidewalk, more erratic now than when she'd begun, punctuated by men's voices, and he closed his eyes and listened—the voices were a little too hushed for him to make out the words, but the tones were threatening, confident, and he could hear the scuffing of shoes getting closer along with her heels.

Atta girl. He opened his eyes, and as the sound of heels began to echo as she got nearer to the alley, he whistled, two little '_hello'_ notes—right in time, as it turned out; she'd just stepped into the mouth of the alley, and he leaned his head forward slightly and watched.

She stopped dead and played it off like a champ, looking around in apparent desperation before turning to look into the alley and seeming to make a split-second decision, plunging into the dark. He heard several little whoops of triumph from her pursuers, and she was only five steps into the alley when their shadows appeared at the mouth and they followed her in, faster now.

She'd brought him three—two skinny and strung out, one a hulking skinhead that walked with his chest puffed out, probably the sort that had relied on his size over skill for much too long, a tendency that he would probably rue in the unlikely case that he found the time to. _Ahhh, Narrows rapists and muggers_—dangle a little piece like Harley in front of them, and it was almost _comical_ how fast they came running. They really were too predictable for their own good, too confident that they were untouchable in their own neighborhood. If the only thing they had to be afraid of was the cops, they'd have been right: the Narrows was so overrun with crime that the police were practically scared to set foot in it, at least unless they had an excuse to go en masse.

Unfortunately for them, the Joker wasn't the cops.

He stepped out from behind the dumpster, and Harley ran right for him. Showing a glimmer of brains, the trio of thugs following her paused, but the glimmer faded as they looked amongst themselves and decided they could handle the hiccup in the plan.

Harley, staying in character like a pro, wailed, "Mister! Mister, please help me!" She sounded like she was really crying, and he felt a little seed of pride flowering in his chest as she ran up and ducked behind him. He didn't speak yet, just eyeing the trio of miscreants as they drew up short about five feet away. He measured them up now that they were a little closer—one was much too big, the other a smidge too little, but the one on the left was promising: around the Joker's size, looked white in the dim light… things were working out beautifully.

"Walk away, man," said out the little one in the middle to a chorus of snickers from his wingmen. "This doesn't concern you."

The Joker theatrically turned his head to look at Harley, who was sniveling behind him—well, _snickering_, really, but _they_ wouldn't be able to tell. He looked back at them and, casually and unthreateningly, he said, "Oh, I'm sure it doesn't take all _three_ of you to walk a girl home. I mean, even in a neighborhood like _this_, that's _over_kill, right?"

The little guy took a threatening step forward, and, with over-practiced machismo, he lifted his sweatshirt up clear of his sagging pants, where a pistol caught the glint of the light shining from behind the Joker. "Walk away, or we'll give _you_ a taste of what we had planned for _her_," he said in what was doubtless his toughest tone.

It was his fault, really, going for the threat instead of the kill. Now, The Joker was bored. With the speed that came from regular, practical habit, he drew the suppressed pistol from the holster hidden by his jacket, and with one sharp, pressurized _pfft_ of air he'd put a bullet right through the little guy's throat.

"Fuck, fuck, shit," blurted the one on the left, fumbling immediately at his own waist, but the Joker dropped his gun, lunged forward, and seized his hand right as it landed on the hilt of the pistol there, twisting it up and applying brutal pressure. He felt the bones give and crack under his grip, and the thug let out a gratifying screech of pain. The Joker dropped the hand, pulled the gun from the guy's pants and dropped it to the pavement as well, then grabbed his quarry by the throat and shoulder and threw him against the brick wall hard enough that his skull made a gratifying crack.

The big guy either didn't have a gun or forgot to draw it in his sudden confusion. Showing that glimmer of brains again, he turned and ran.

The Joker, still holding his guy pinned against the wall, glanced over his shoulder. "Harley."

She didn't need anything else. Like a shot, she bolted after the guy. He didn't make it five steps before she crashed into his back knees-first, and the Joker knew firsthand that when Harley wanted to take you down, it took incredible willpower to stay upright. As hefty as the guy was, he went face-first to the pavement.

The Joker cackled. "Guess it's true what they say about _the_ _bigger they come_," he said to the guy he was holding against the wall.

"Please—please," blubbered the guy, and then caught sight of the half of the Joker's face illuminated by the back light and let out a strangled groan as recognition hit. "Oh, Jesus! Not _you_! _Fuck_!"

"Shhh," the Joker admonished. "I wanna see this." _Telling_ people to shut up didn't always work, but the guy's sudden terror combined with the Joker's tightening grip at his throat rendered him temporarily mute except for low whimpering and panting, and the Joker took advantage of it. He turned to watch Harley work.

The guy had rolled violently over, throwing her off of him, but as the Joker watched she dove back onto him, taking a flailing fist to her gut for her trouble. She let out a pained "oomph," but didn't fall back, blocking the following fist with an elbow. The big guy then decided that the fastest way out of this was to go for the throat, and he actually got his hands around her neck, but that was his mistake—it left _her _hands unoccupied, and the Joker felt a tingle of anticipation as he heard her let loose a choked whisper: "Rapist _fuck_."

Her back was blocking his view, but he could tell by the wet gurgle that immediately followed that Harley had cut his throat, and deep too, from the sound of it. No matter how many times he saw her kill—and in his defense, the number was _much _smaller than he thought it should be—he felt the familiar dizzying sense of glee that came with the reconciliation the meek little therapist with the bruised throat he'd met that first day with the ball of energized fury that followed him into battle like a zealot, the knowledge that it was all _his _doing. He felt the need to share, and turned to his own target with a glowing grin. "Now, _that's _the sorta girl you want to take home to Mother," he confided.

"Oh, God, please, _help me_," groaned the guy.

The Joker gave him a mockingly concerned squint. "Uhm. Y'know, I don't claim to be up on this sort of thing, but last I heard, the big guy upstairs doesn't really give handouts to guys who follow little girls into dark alleys."

"_Help_!" shrieked the guy, either seeing the sense in the Joker's words or finally growing desperate enough to try to call for aid in the middle of the Narrows. The Joker knew it wouldn't do any good, but still, no need to take chances.

He clapped one hand over his victim's mouth with bruising force, getting into his face and hissing, "Shhhh, shush shushshush. Calm down. I'm not gonna kill you."

He could tell the guy didn't believe him, so he didn't lift his hand. By that point, Harley had rejoined them, looking disgruntled. "I got rapist blood all over my shirt," she said, lifting the hem of her formerly-white top to show the spattered bloodstains across the bottom.

"Aww," the Joker said, clicking his tongue in sympathy. "Here. Watch. I've got somethin' that'll make you _feel _better." She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the promise, and took a step back and folded her arms, signifying that he had her attention.

The Joker returned his focus to the cockroach he had pinned against the wall. Leaving one hand crushed painfully across the guy's mouth, he reached into his pocket with the other, coming up with one of his favorite knives. The click of the switchblade popping out and locking in place freaked the guy out; he started struggling and screaming fruitlessly. The Joker didn't see the point—without his posse, he was no more than a weak-armed junkie, and muffled by the Joker's hands, his screams wouldn't go far.

The Joker removed his hand, and the guy drew breath for what would doubtless be one hell of a shout, but the hand was replaced almost immediately by the switchblade, pressed into the corner of his mouth, and all that air came gusting uselessly and fearfully out of his lungs all at once.

"There. _That's_ better," the Joker said.

His prey's eyes were fixed on him in animal fear now, and he'd gone perfectly still, clearly thinking that his odds were better if he stayed frozen and silent, as if the Joker's perception depended on movement. He wasn't so fortunate, but if it kept him pliable and cooperative, the Joker wasn't going to tell _him _that.

He pressed the knife against the corner of the mouth where it rested, not hard enough to cut, just testing the resilience of the skin there. The guy's eyes tracked his face, but the Joker didn't bother to return the stare, glancing over his shoulder at where Harley was standing tiptoe and watching in interest. "See, Harls, I started playing a little _game _while you were gone. It doesn't really have a title…" He clicked his tongue thoughtfully and added, "I was kind of toying with _Will the Real Joker Please Stand Up_."

His knuckles tightened around the hilt of the knife and he _pushed_. The blade cut through the corner of the guy's mouth and into his cheek like butter, and he slipped it out before it got too far, flicking a spray of blood against the back wall with it. The man _squalled, _a guttural, piglike sound, and his knees buckled, but the Joker seized his thinning hair and jerked him back upright, doubtless liberating some strands in the process.

"Aaaaand one _more,_" he said, all business, and it took a steady hand with the way the guy was thrashing around, getting blood all over the Joker's face and jacket, but he was old hat at this by now, inserting the blade in the undamaged corner of his mouth and repeating the motion with little effort. The guy screamed so hard he ran out of breath, the sound ending in a rough stutter, and the Joker released him and let him sink down to the alley floor.

"There, you see, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, propping his hands on his hips and looking down disapprovingly at the newly-marked scumbag.

The guy coughed, spraying blood on the Joker's jeans, and the Joker tsked disapprovingly. "I tell you, people are _so _rude these days," he muttered, reaching down and patting at his sobbing victim's pants and then finding what he wanted in the pocket of his hoodie.

He straightened up, glanced over his shoulder at Harley, whose hands were covering her mouth, eyes wide in disbelief, and signaled with his index finger that she should wait a second. He turned back around, looked down at the phone he held in his hand, and dialed 911.

After waiting patiently for an answer, he said, "Ahh… we need an ambulance off of Roseland Street, in the Narrows. In the alleyway beside that old shut-down costume place. Someone's bleeding… _badly._ Pretty sure I saw some _clowns._"

He hung up, then dropped the phone on the pavement. His victim wasn't making much noise now, just a gargled sob every now and again, but he wasn't worried—he hadn't cut him _nearly _as far or as deep as he'd cut Gambol; provided the paramedics didn't hem and haw about going into the Narrows like _chickenshits _and got to him before he bled out, he'd survive.

The Joker turned to Harley, whose hands were down away from her mouth now, her eyes shining, and this time, he_ offered_ her his arm, flashing her a grin as she stepped forward without hesitation. "Come on, baby. Let's _get_ while the gettin's _good_."

* * *

**A/N** - Ahhh, those crazy kids. Gotta love 'em. That Joker sure knows his way to a girl's heart, killing and mutilating rapists. (For the record, he'd be just as happy- if not more so- cutting into your average everyday tourist, but predators are easier to find in the dark.)

I am ridiculously partial to this chapter, though- getting into the Joker's head and finally finding out how he feels about certain things (scars on Harley, his own face, etc) was a really fun exercise. I mean, plotwise this is straight-up filler but in terms of character I think it was moderately important. That shit's fun. (On the topic of the asylum recordings? That memory's skipped off elsewhere right now in the Joker's brain, but if I remember right it'll come up again later. Just not important to him tonight. Maybe the shadows ate it.)

Date night's not over yet! Next chapter takes us back to Harley's POV, and the Joker introduces her to... someone. Someone I think you guys are going to be happy to see. Now, I've got work to get to tonight, so I'm off. Y'all drop me a line to tell me what you think about all this mess, and have a fabulous weekend!


	13. don't get soft on me

**Chapter Twelve**

**don't get soft on me**

_I don't want a sweetheart, sweetheart,  
I want a machine!  
I love you the most, I do,  
When you're so close to me I can smell the gasoline_

**-The Dead Weather, **_**Gasoline**_

Despite the impending emergency vehicles and the groups of bums and gang members still studding the street, the Joker took us out of the alley the front way. I needn't have worried. No one bothered us. In fact, they seemed to be going out of their way to avoid looking at us. Maybe it was the screams that had preceded us from the alley; maybe it was the fact that we were both spotted and sprayed with blood. Either way, no one tried to stop us.

My whole body was buzzing by the time we reached the car, and not just at the effortless escape. I couldn't quite believe what had transpired, the brilliance of it all. Not only were two rapists dead (and I _knew _they were rapists, unless the filthy threats they'd been muttering as they tracked me were all talk and no action, which seemed unlikely given that they'd all but _jumped _at the chance to corner me in an alley), but another bore scars matching the Joker's—and I realized as I thought about it that he was similar in build to the Joker, too.

The implications of what I'd just witnessed were dizzying, and as we reached the car and he circled around to the passenger's seat, I looked at him over the top and demanded, "How many times have you done that before?"

"Uh…" he said, climbing in the car, and I followed suit. "Four? Or… seven." He waved a dismissive hand as I turned the key in the ignition, and with a few huffing protests, the engine turned over. "I kinda lost track. It doesn't matter."

"I thought you didn't like imitators," I said, pulling away from the old factory and beating one hell of a path out of the Narrows.

"_Imitators_? No," he said, eyes rolling up in thought as he tongued at the corner of his mouth. "Now, _decoys…_" He glanced at me out of the corners of his eyes, and I beamed at him. _Of course. _Without the paint, the scars were the only thing to set him apart from Adam in the eyes of average Gothamites, and the more men that looked vaguely like him bearing similar scars, the less certain anyone could be of who exactly they were seeing when one walked down the street. Of course, there would be those who didn't care either way, but I wasn't exactly going to shed tears for a guy who was about three seconds away from jumping me with his buddies.

As I started navigating my way off the island, the Joker abruptly said, "Head towards the southeastern bridge. We're stopping in Cobble Hill."

I shot him a startled glance. It was after 3 AM at this point and we were covered in blood to boot; I'd been fairly certain that we were on our way home. Still, I didn't question him. I silently rerouted the car towards Cobble Hill.

The drive there was peaceful. I spent it keeping us at least several blocks away from the nearest siren sound; J spent it leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, thinking or resting or meditating—I had no way of knowing. It wasn't until we reached the neighborhood that he made a sound, and only then to tell me to turn left without opening his eyes. I obeyed, playing along in large part out of curiosity to see where this was going.

A few more directions had us parked essentially beneath Calvary Bridge, and the Joker still wasn't offering any explanations as he smoothly ducked out of the car. I scrambled out behind him, figuring that if I was supposed to stay, he'd let me know, but he said nothing, whistling as he led the way across the street to an apartment building beyond.

It was nicer than the crumbling housing projects with boarded-up windows, but it was hardly uptown Gotham—stairs crawled up and around the brick building, leading to access-from-the-outside doorways, and it was to one of these on the second story that the Joker led me. I stood behind him on the narrow little balcony as he rapped cheerily on the door, arms crossed over my chest—it was late August and not exactly _cold, _but the night was growing old and I was wearing a skirt that fell above the knee; the slight chill was starting to eat at me.

The Joker kept knocking relentlessly away until a faint, annoyed shout came from inside: "_Stop _that, you thickheaded _barbarian_! For God's _sake, _it's three in the morning!"

The Joker, true to form, simply kept knocking at the same rate until the door was suddenly flung open and he was brought face to face with a device that wasn't a welcome bouquet. "Hiya, Eddie," he said, completely unfazed.

The man in the doorway lowered the device, though he kept it leveled at his hip. "I'll have you know I was a split second away from sending nineteen million volts through your body, and rest assured the amperage behind them is sufficient to make that _mean_ something."

"Lucky for _you_, you've got better impulse control than that," said the Joker, and pushed past him into the apartment, leaving our new host and me to regard each other.

Eddie was a thin man, shorter than the Joker but still a fair bit taller than I was, with carrot-red hair that was creeping back from the sides of his forehead and stuck out in all directions. He looked like he was probably somewhere in his thirties, with narrow features, slightly crooked teeth, freckles dotting his face (all faded, presumably from lack of sun in recent days—he was very fair-skinned), and deep-set green eyes that were fixed suspiciously on me. Despite the hour and the gray sweats and green t-shirt that clung to his narrow frame, he didn't look the least bit sleepy—even the hair looked less like bedhead and more like he'd just been running his hands through it for a few hours. All in all, he didn't look the least bit like the usual brute force the Joker usually associated with, and so I was _very _curious as to what we were doing at this man's home in the wee hours of the morning.

He had sized me up as well, and his eyes narrowed as he said, "You are, quite clearly, the recently-escaped Miss Quinzel."

I eyed him thoughtfully, then said, "I _do_ have a doctorate."

"Oh, well, I'm sorry for you. _Doctorates_ are for those who crave validation of their intelligence from so-called _higher institutions_. I never wasted my time."

My eyes widened in disbelief. I'd never met a _single _person who managed to sound so superior about their _lack _of formal education. Eddie was apparently finished with me, turning to follow the Joker inside. I trailed after him and closed the door, wondering who exactly this guy thought he was and _why _the Joker hadn't killed him yet.

The inside of the apartment was… well, given the limited conversation we'd had, I suppose it shouldn't have surprised me that the place looked like a combination of a library explosion and a hacker's nest. It was hard to find a free spot on the floor between the stacks of books, paper, and various black boxes spouting wires, and the furniture seemed limited to a desk and chair, two work tables, and an oversized couch.

It was on this last that the Joker had plopped down, feet up and legs stretched out to take up the whole thing. Eddie looked at him and his thin shoulders slumped in immediate frustration. "Oh, by all means, make yourself at home. Never mind that I _just _got the bloodstains from your _last _visit out," he grumbled, picking his way across the room to his computer chair, where he sat and swiveled so that he could keep an eye on the Joker.

"Aww," drawled the Joker, eyes lit up in a way that I knew from experience signified malevolent amusement more than amused malevolence (and the distinction was an important one). "_surely _a little _elbow grease _is worth, ah, the _pleasure _of my company. Or…" He glanced pointedly around the cramped, wrecked room which clearly hadn't seen a soul other than its inhabitant in days, if not weeks—"well, _any _company, really." He narrowed his eyes sympathetically. "Y'know, I _worry _about you, Eddie. You been getting out enough?"

"If _you _are representative of what awaits me when I _get out_, then I much prefer to stay in—a choice rendered moot, might I add, by your _insistence _on coming to my home. And _this _time you brought a henchperson along," he added, shooting an annoyed look at me, "so _thank _you, really, for showing the other criminals of Gotham where I live. Although, of course, going by her track record, she's not nearly as bloodthirsty or as dangerous as you are, so I owe you some grudging gratitude for that, I suppose."

The Joker glanced over the back of the couch to where I was standing beside the entryway. "Harley? Want to respond to that?"

I shrugged and pointed to the opposite wall, which was entirely covered in maps, photos, and various papers, with string dissecting and connecting them in one big complex web. "I'd say that's rich talk for a guy whose house looks like the lair of every serial killer in modern cinema." Eddie shot me a glare, and I shrugged at him. "Either that or the guy that _catches _the serial killer. Give me five more minutes and I'll let you know which one I've decided."

The Joker laughed. "I _knew _the two of you would get along," he said with sarcastic fondness, and brought his feet to the floor, sitting up abruptly. "_So._ Eddie. You're good with the _questions_, right? So why don't you tell me—why am I _here_?"

Eddie actually seemed to take a question that, posed to anyone else, would have been intimidating in stride, slowly swiveling his chair back and forth as he looked from me to the Joker and back again. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and said, "Well, clearly you're not here to insist on asylum, thankfully. If it was just _you _that was covered in blood, I might have cause to worry, but given that she's bearing a blood spatter pattern consistent with close-range arterial spray, I'd say it's more likely that the two of you have been out on some…" he gestured aimlessly, "_murder date_—and I _don't _want the details on that," he said sharply as both the Joker and I opened our mouths to clarify.

"No… given our past transactions and the fact that you met with Oswald Cobblepot one week ago, I think you're here because you want some _real _background on Cobblepot, the kind that includes the things he thinks he's buried." His gaze fell unswervingly on the Joker, and after a second, his face split into a pleased grin. "I'm right, aren't I? Of course I'm right."

"You're quite the little detective," the Joker allowed, though his tone was so sodden with mockery that there was no way anyone could take it as a compliment.

Eddie didn't seem to care. He rotated back around to his desk and grabbed a thin stack of folders that sat there. "Fortunately for you, I'm _always _right, which means I foresaw this and did the research in advance. You pay me, you get your files, you get out of my apartment, and everybody's happy."

The Joker stood abruptly and prowled over to where Eddie sat, somehow managing to piece together an easy path through the mess on the floor without looking stupid. Watching, I was somewhat gratified to see that Eddie's bravado seemed to shrink with each step the Joker took towards him—his shoulders began to slump slightly; he fidgeted in the chair and finally brought his knees slightly up as if they could make some sort of adequate barrier between them. The Joker paused a few inches in front of him, then, without a word, snatched the folders from his hand, leaned against the desk beside him, and started thumbing through them.

Eddie looked like he desperately wanted to say something, but for the first time that night, he managed to hold his tongue—might have had something to do with the fact that he was now easily in the Joker's stabbing range. J, for his part, studied one page intently, sucked at the inside of a scar, and said, as if there _hadn't _been a minute-long pause in the conversation, "I'm not gonna let that hurt my _feelings, _Eddie, cause, uh, I _know _why you're being so callous."

Eddie released a long exhale and buried a hand in his thinning hair. "Dear God. For _once_, I regret what I just said; now can we skip whatever absurdity _you're_ about to spew in response?"

The Joker looked up on him, one corner of his mouth twisted in a crooked half-smirk. "You're afraid of _intimacy_."

"There it is," Eddie mumbled.

I snickered as the Joker leaned over him and he hunched back, but something on the opposite wall caught my eye. I picked my way across the room and took a closer look at Eddie's serial killer wall.

_Pennington. _I knew the name—he was Pam's first victim. There on the wall was the article written after his autopsy had revealed the traces of the poison she'd used—I'd seen it before; I'd anxiously read every article I could get my hands on until the investigation finally seemed to fizzle out. The question was _why was Eddie interested?_

The end of a red string was tacked to the article, and I followed it across the board, where the other end was attached to another headline. My stomach dropped when I read it.

It was an article about Pam's disappearance in Egypt, and I felt panic and disbelief rising in my throat. _What the hell? How could he possibly have connected the two? _I glanced rapidly over my shoulder, but Eddie was busy being intimidated by J and wasn't paying attention to me.

Rapidly, I looked back at the board and looked to see how those articles related to everything else. I started calming down just a little as I saw that there were quite a few articles involving violent mysteries like Pam's trip to Egypt, most connected by thread to some other apparently unrelated headline. _Okay, so it looks like this is a little bit of a hobby for this guy. And since he's working with J, it's unlikely that he would rat Pam out to the cops, even if he did know for certain what she was doing. _Still, I wasn't comfortable that he'd apparently discovered the link. If he saw something implicating Pam, then who else might?

I'd need to bring it up as soon as she started speaking to me again, see what she wanted to do. I absently reached to smooth a stray bit of string away from the headline it was blocking, but Eddie's sharp voice stopped me: "_Don't _touch that!"

I glanced over. The two of them had frozen mid-movement at Eddie's shout; Eddie was pressed tightly against the back of the chair, his body language screaming defensiveness, and the Joker was hunched over him, hands planted on the top of the chair back beside Eddie's head. He'd clearly been doing something along the lines of threatening him, and now looked vaguely surprised at Eddie's poor survival instincts if he was putting the wellbeing of his weird wall above his own.

"Sorry," I said reflexively. "If it makes you feel better, though, I'm pretty sure you're the guy who _catches _the serial killers."

Eddie was visibly upset at this point, though I wasn't sure if it was due to my meddling or fear of the Joker. He glanced up at J, hovering over him, took a second to collect himself, and then, his voice much steadier, he said, "I would _very_ much appreciate it if you took the files and left. I have a lot of work to do."

The Joker released the chair and straightened up. "_Sure_," he said, curling his hand into a loose fist and making a brief jerking-off motion; "_work._" However, he relented, turning and collecting the files from where he'd set them on the desk.

Eddie's arrogance had sapped from him, leaving him looking smaller. I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy, even though he'd brought it on himself, talking to the Joker like that. I picked my way back across the room, pausing in front of him, and he looked up at me warily.

"I like your place," I told him. "Lots of interesting stuff to look at."

He snorted. "Well, there damn well should be," he said, but despite the brush-off, he looked a little heartened.

The Joker closed the folder and tucked it under his arm, looking up at us. "Well. I guess we'll be going, then—if, ah, you're _sure _you don't want the company, Eddie."

"Absolutely certain," Eddie said flatly.

The Joker clicked his tongue. "All _right, _then. Harley?"

"See ya," I said to Eddie, getting a grumble in response, and I followed the Joker out of his apartment and back to the car.

He took a second to tuck the folder safely into the glovebox, giving me the opportunity to ogle him a little bit. I'd been so busy all night I hadn't really had the time to appreciate this rarity—the Joker, makeupless and in street clothes, even his distinct hair tucked away. With the black beanie, black army jacket clinging tight to his bony frame, and the heavy purple shadows under his eyes usually obscured by the paint, he looked less like Gotham's clown prince of crime and more like a particularly handsome junkie.

He also looked years younger. Not that he looked _old _in full gear as the Joker—ageless more than anything else- but the costume brought his innate power out, made it a focal point and made him seem distinctly authoritative, someone you instinctively knew not to mess with. Without all that…

Well. He was still scary—it was in the way he held his shoulders, the way his eyes cut unexpectedly into you, but it was easier to see more than just the monster, especially when he was silent like this.

Of course, good things always come to an end. He caught me staring for the second time that night and turned, fixing me with an inscrutable look. "Uh. We gonna stay here all _night, _or…"

I knew he wasn't thrilled when I did this, just gazed at his unpainted face—he denied feeling any sort of discomfort or anxiety when he went barefaced, and he might even have been telling the truth, but I knew he had his preference, and the more people who never saw anything but the lurid paint, the happier he was. Rather than being an exception to that rule, for all the many reasons I _should_ be, it seemed to apply _double_ to me, so I didn't think I could be blamed for looking when I got the chance.

However, it was probably prudent to disguise it as something else. I grinned at him and walked closer, seeing him roll his eyes as he realized what I was doing but choosing to ignore it. I put my arms around him, looked up, and crooned, "I had a _wonderful _time tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said dismissively, looking past me to check and ensure the road was clear.

"You're the best boyfriend _ever_."

That got a chuckle out of him. He glanced down at me, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Tryin' to soften me up?"

"Saying _thank you. _And you're good-looking. And I love you."

"_Definitely _trying to soften me up," he commented dryly, but he didn't push me off when I put my arms around his neck and pressed my mouth softly and briefly to his.

I didn't push my luck by lingering, though. I let him go, took a step away, and pulled my bloodstained top over my head, stripping down to the camisole underneath.

J glanced theatrically over his shoulder, then squinted at me. "Now? _Here_?"

I stuck my tongue out at him. "That wasn't what I had in mind, but if you're offering…"

"_Tempting_, but we really _should_ be going. I wouldn't put it past Eddie to call the cops outta _spite_."

"Fine with me. I'm only ditching the shirt cause I want to hit up the McDonalds drive-through and grab a milkshake, and it's all bloody."

The Joker stared. I raised my eyebrows defensively. "What? You can keep your face turned away, but I'm starved. Killing rapists drums up one hell of an appetite, and anyway, in case you haven't noticed, I'm about ten pounds underw—"

The rest of that sentence disappeared into a squeak when he grabbed me by the elbow and jerked me towards him, kissing me a good deal harder than I'd kissed _him_—I'm not sure if it was because hearing me talk about murder really got him going or because he was trying to shut me up, but I reciprocated gladly. It didn't last long, both of us still aware of the possibility of impending danger, and when he let me go, it was with a nip to the bottom lip sharp enough to cut the skin. "Drive," he told me, and, the taste of blood on my tongue, I obeyed.

I wasn't kidding when I told him I wanted a milkshake. I asked him before we entered the drive-through if he wanted one, only to receive the stunningly unhelpful response of "Uhh—orange and chocolate. In layers."

"Sweetheart, I'm like ninety-nine percent sure they just throw all the ingredients in a cup and blend the shit out of it, so layers aren't gonna happen," I told him, refraining from pointing out that they'd discontinued their orange flavor, since that seemed like asking for trouble. He sighed, and I told the speaker box that we just wanted one vanilla and one chocolate instead.

Without being asked, he turned on his side and faced the other side of the car, looking no more threatening than your average sleeping passenger, the blood on his jeans invisible in the dark. Everything actually went well until the girl at the second window was handing over the milkshakes: he suddenly sat up, reached over me, and grabbed the second one from her hand instead. He looked her directly in the eyes, grinned, and said, "Hey, thanks!"

She turned as white as a sheet, and I didn't stick around to see more. As the Joker whooped with laughter, I peeled out of the parking lot. Once we were safely around the corner, I tried my damndest to glare at him, but it was impossible—he was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes, and without the paint the laughter wasn't so much terrifying as infectious. I found myself grinning reluctantly even as I said, "I cannot _believe_ you did that."

"Oh," he gasped, resting a hand on his stomach as he tried to recover, "ohhh, Harley. Did you see her _face_?"

"Dork," I said, but he was so clearly happy I couldn't help but grin. "Drink your milkshake."

After that, the ride home was mostly silent. The sky was growing lighter, we were tired and content and we each had a milkshake to work on. We reached headquarters just as the sun was starting to rise, and as soon as I parked, J got out and went around to the back of the car, stooping there.

I joined him, watching with interest. He'd taken a knife to the license plate and was prying it out of its bed. Puzzled, I said, "I'm pretty sure she was too scared to poke her head out of the window and get the number."

"Maybe _so_," he said casually, wrenching the plate off, "but these days in Gotham, even Mickey D's is set up for CCTV. Won't hurt to play it safe."

"I'm _positive _that's the first time I've ever heard that sentence come out of your mouth."

He snorted as he finished up. Apparently, the extent of his caution was limited to removing the plate—once it came free, he slapped it up on top of the car for the next person to use it to deal with. Then, in a move that told me the night had put him into an astoundingly good mood, he turned, hunched, and gestured to his back. "Come on."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I jumped on his back immediately, securing my arms around his neck as he looped his under my legs. I nestled up close to his neck, he took a sip from the straw of the milkshake I still held, then he carried me inside.

The henchmen were back. Several were strewn around on the floor, most of the rest I imagine were asleep in the back rooms, but a few were still awake, drinking and playing cards in the main room. The Joker paused in the doorway, adjusting his grip on me, and cocked his head, asking, "Any news?"

Ace, after double-taking, took it upon himself to answer. "None, boss."

The Joker nodded and turned away, and I will not admit to making a face at Ace over my shoulder before he carried me from the room. That would just be childish.

It wasn't until he was depositing me in the bed that I realized how tired I was, but even as I yawned, I was reaching for him. He said, "Ah, ah, ah," disapprovingly, though, removing his clothing from my grasp. "Don't get _greedy, _Harley. You've had enough of me for one night, don't you think?"

"You know full well I _never _think that," I told him, but I couldn't bring myself to sulk, not with how wonderfully not-mercurial he'd been the whole evening. I kicked my heels off and shimmied out of my skirt as he ditched the jacket, and as I climbed beneath the blanket, yawning again, I asked, "You planning to sleep at all tonight?"

"Go to sleep, Harley," he said in lieu of answering, disappearing into the bathroom. I turned over and obeyed.

* * *

The last week had been at once utterly uneventful in the grand scheme and, for me, unusually busy on the smaller scale. Given that I was used to the boredom at Arkham, it was a little overwhelming being pitched back into the Joker's world and expected to catch right up. There was a lot to do, and I was actually glad the Cobblepot scheme wasn't proceeding immediately—it gave me a chance to get back in touch with the way things worked.

The most immediate task at hand was to get back into fighting shape. I spent a good deal of time working out muscles that had been sadly underused for months—in addition to the shitty food, the exercise situation at Arkham was practically nonexistent, and there's only so much you can do in the limited expanse of a cell, so despite a regular routine of pushups, crunches, and the like, things were still fairly dismal. Fortunately, muscle memory was on my side, as far as my training routines went, and it took only a few days for me to stop feeling like I was going to actually die after every workout. I was fairly confident that if I kept it up, I'd be back to my old self in no time.

The actual _fighting _part of getting into fighting shape… well, that was trickier. All my old sparring partners were either dead or gone, with the exception of J, and I didn't exactly want him seeing how rusty I'd gotten. I knew I needed work, but there was only so much you could do alone, and I was hesitant to ask complete strangers who may or may not be prejudiced against me already for their help. I definitely wasn't asking Ace, who would welcome the chance to be responsible for me having a "training accident," and as capable as I was certain George was, I felt weird about the idea of us knocking each other around the sparring room.

Fortunately, I got to know Spider.

Just a few days after the initial meeting with Cobblepot, I was in the kitchen, trying to decide with my limited options whether a pickle sandwich would be worth trying, when a henchman came flying in from the back rooms. It was the tattooed black guy from my first day back, the one who had taken my advice about Julie Andrews. His eyes fell on me, and as I tilted my head questioningly, he held up a grenade and blurted, "This shit's ticking."

It took me just a split second to realize how many explosives we had stockpiled just a few rooms away. I bolted forward, snatched the grenade out of his hand, and was out of the front door in moments. I vaguely registered that he was following, right on my heels, but at that moment I was focused on getting the grenade as far away from the house as possible. I ran as far down the street as I dared before the fear of getting my face blown off overwhelmed my fear of the Joker and everyone else being killed in a house-wide explosion, and then I stopped, wound back, and chucked the thing as hard as I could.

It arced through the air, and I waited breathlessly until it landed in an out-of-use lot a few dozen yards away, clattering a few more feet before coming to a stop. By that point, the henchman arrived beside me, and we stood waiting breathlessly for about thirty seconds. When the thing showed no sign of exploding, I ventured, "I guess it was a dud."

"I guess so," he said. "Quick thinking."

"Eh," I said noncommittally, trying to catch my breath. "When the guy you love is just upstairs in a house packed full of C4 and gasoline, getting the ticking grenade as far away from him as possible becomes instinct."

He snorted. "I'll have to keep that in mind. Make sure not to fall in love with a guy. I'm Spider, by the way."

"Harley," I said, shaking the hand he offered. I noted his heavy scarring, not only on his tattooed knuckles but also the more linear ones on the back of his hands and forearms, and I looked up at him in interest. "You don't happen to knife fight, do you?"

He did, and although initially hesitant to agree to get rough with the boss's girlfriend, I wore him down over the next day or two with a combination of threats, dares, and just plain nagging. He was good, too, had reach to his advantage since he was roughly 6'2, and it was a given that he was way stronger than I was. I was delighted and frustrated in equal measure—I'd really need to ramp up the speed and agility angles to overcome his advantages, but I'd much rather figure out how to do that _now _than when I was faced with someone who was _really _out for my blood.

And Spider wasn't, I felt sure after our first session, despite his indirect confirmations of my suspicions about Ace poisoning the other guys against me (during cool down after our second sparring match, he'd made a comment about how I was a lot more laid-back than he'd been told; when I asked him _who _told him that he got cagey and wouldn't answer, but I knew well enough).

As I got to know him a little better, his willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt made more sense—he was smart, level-headed, and, to the best of my assessment, completely sane, which was saying something for a Joker henchman. I was maintaining my decision not to get close to any of the men, so I didn't ask any questions, but Spider was an open book, and based on the several offhand comments he dropped on the subject, he was working with us largely because a criminal history that started when he was very young ruled out more respectable jobs, and at any rate, he figured he had a knack for it by now.

Sparring with Spider had an unforeseen effect. I'd just wanted to brush up on my knife skills, but he must have been talking about me to some of the other guys, because even with me keeping largely to myself—much more so than I used to—the atmosphere of chilly suspicion bordering on hostility was starting to dissolve. They started speaking to me, just little passing things, some hesitantly crass but well-meaning jokes meant to include me—or at least to make me feel not-_excluded_. It was heartwarming, really, coming from this group of rough, tough, mean-looking guys, and I couldn't help but grin at them in passing and start to learn their names, even as I continuously reminded myself not to get _too _drawn in.

Naturally, there was a small group that maintained a distance and glowered as covertly as they could manage when I walked past—Ace's buddies, naturally, comically almost all white skinheads; they all looked alike to me. I was kind of grateful for them. If not for their almost-constant presence, I might have been tempted to spend more time in the main area. As it was, I limited it to just enough time to not appear standoffish, thirty minutes here and there—and always, I noticed, the subject of George's casually watchful eye, though we hadn't spoken since the weevil conversation.

As for the Joker, I barely saw him that first week. He always seemed to have something to do, usually out of the house, and for the most part, I was okay with that. Sure, I wanted to be with him every passing minute, but the fearful urgency that had accompanied that desire for the past few months had faded now that I was back home. Additionally, to a certain extent, I felt a little ashamed being around him while I was out of practice. I didn't mind staying under the radar until I was back in top shape as the Harley he was used to, the one he deserved.

Then, as I was just starting to feel caught up, he sprung that glorious date night on me.

The next day, Cobblepot got in touch.

I woke to an empty room, but I could hear the thumping of hurried footsteps below, and there was a palpable tenseness in the air—not necessarily bad as much as anticipatory. I was sitting at the edge of the bed and pulling on some jeans when J appeared in the doorway. The paint was back on; he was dressed in Joker attire, sans coat, and when he saw that I was awake, he took a second to button his cuffs before telling me, "He wants us. Tonight."

"Okay," I said, feeling a little pulse of adrenaline at the thought of _really _getting back in action. "Umm. What's the plan?"

He straightened his tie, smoothed down his vest, and then approached me. There was a look in his eye that I wasn't sure how to feel about—I recognized it as one he got when he was planning a surprise, but his surprises rarely went well for anyone besides him, myself included. I watched him suspiciously as he stooped abruptly in front of me, put his hands on my knees, and looked up at me with a devious smile that wasn't exactly reassuring. "The _plan, _princess, at least as far as _you're _concerned… is you're gonna kidnap the commissioner's kids. And you're gonna bring 'em to me."

My eyebrows shut up. _This is new. _We'd kidnapped people before, sure, just never… well, _kids. _"The, uh… the _commissioner's_—?"

"Commissioner Jim Gordon. He's an old buddy. Can't get him to stop arresting me." He stood up, reached in his back pocket, and pulled out a couple of pictures, setting them face up on my legs and tapping at them with his fingertips. "Jim, nine, and Barbara, three. Named after their parents." He tsked in disapproval. "_Lazy_."

I pulled the photos out from under his fingers and looked at them. They were cute—little Jim was sporting a smile that was missing two front teeth and short blond hair in a cut that made it obvious he was a cop's kid, and Barbara had a shock of curly red hair framing her rosy, round face. They looked like professionally-done portraits. I wondered where he'd gotten them. "Okay," I said slowly, "so why _these kids _in particular?"

The Joker paced a few steps away, lacing his hands behind his back and stretching. "Gordon's a mutual friend of mine and, ah, our _favorite_ bug-breathed menace, if their past collaborations are anything to go by. Nothin' like a little _personal _touch to get his attention."

"So you're really planning to draw him off of Cobblepot?" I asked, idly flipping the pictures over. There were addresses written on the back—a school for Jim, a daycare for Barbara, along with their pickup times. The Joker must have someone close to Gordon feeding him this stuff. "I guess that makes sense. Lure him into a false sense of security."

When he didn't answer, I glanced up. He was wearing a curious expression, one that I might call almost guilty if it wasn't for the completely unabashed edge to it. I was immediately suspicious. "J, what are you planning?"

"Now, now, now," he chided me, though a sly grin had slipped onto his face. "You focus on _your _part. It's _important. _Now, uh, _George _is gonna drive you, help out where he can… the two of you are less likely to get the cops called on you for _lurking _around a playground than _me _or… well, _any _of the other guys, really. Beyond that, it's _your _call."

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a _watch_," he mumbled halfheartedly, but he was fishing his pocket watch out even as he spoke. "Twelve-thirty."

I checked the pickup times on the back of the photos. "You're telling me that I've got approximately two hours to plan a double kidnapping of the _police commissioner's _children—a kidnapping, might I add, that I knew _nothing _about before this moment?"

"Uhh… yeah." He squinted at me. "That's not a _problem_, is it?"

I sighed. "Not a problem at all," I said dutifully. "Just… I'm probably gonna need to borrow your laptop for a little while, get my bearings."

"Sure. And Harley?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't _fuck_ _up_."

I rolled my eyes. "Jeez, thanks for trying your best to keep me from getting nervous," I said flatly, then got up and got to work.

* * *

**A/N** - Hee hee. I couldn't resist; Edward Nygma is one of my favorite Rogues and also a smarmy little shit (has anyone found the pattern among my favorites?). And on that note, it is a testament to the fact that my life is a cosmic joke that the two rogues that have been featured in every episode of Gotham so far are Penguin and Riddler- I swear, I've been plotting this story for years, they were always going to be here, but it looks like I'm just cribbing all my ideas from the TV! Ah, c'est la vie. Should have moved faster.

...okay, I'm kidding, it's not actually an issue, Gotham Eddie and Oswald are way different than the ones I'm writing. On that note, though, I just binge-watched like four episodes of Gotham this afternoon and I _love_ it. Everyone's perfect, it's so much fun watching these characters I love in a new take, the people writing the show obviously love these characters, too, and I just want to hug _everyone_ involved. So consider this a ringing endorsement; if you're not watching Gotham yet, do it and get your Batman fix! I'm telling you, it delivers.

All right, I'm sick and drowsy so continuing to type without having much to say is probably ill-advised. Next: another big night for the clown couple. In the meantime, even if feedback won't technically heal me, it'll certainly make me feel better in _soul_ (oh, yes, I went there). Until next time!


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